The Almost Ones
by Alchemechanist
Summary: Contrary to the societal norm, grief is a powerful aphrodisiac, and when people die they are meant to stay dead. But the Fowl family has never been normal, and without warning the tables turn. Families are ripped apart at the seams, lives end, allies hide in the most unexpected of places, and most of all, the living and the almost ones question what it really means to be alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to The Almost Ones. It's here a few weeks earlier than I had told you all, but I just couldn't stay away. This is an unbetaed piece. Ru-Doragon would have done a fantastic job as she did with Imperium, but I decided that I wanted to keep this one to myself as much as possible for personal reasons. (Also, there will be a cover, I just haven't finished it yet). An important note: this story takes place AFTER THE TIME PARADOX, which means that The Atlantis Complex and The Last Guardian never happened. **

**Now keep your eyes open. Everything is not as it seems. Enjoy!**

* * *

**1. An Unhappy Anniversary**

For once, Angeline Fowl is awake before anyone else in the manor.

Wrapped only in a silk dressing gown, she pads into the dark kitchen, her bare feet sliding over the cold tile with something like dusty sighs. Despite a night of deep sleep, bags hang heavy under her eyes as she approaches the window over the sink, looking out over the horizon.

Over the edge of the tree line, the sky is turning a dusky grey as the sun begins its first reaches over Ireland. At one time in her life, she wouldn't have been able to see this; a body would have been blocking the view — a boy, sitting on one side of the sink with his feet on the other, leaning against the overhead counter to watch the sun rise. His legs would have been gangly and a little too long for his body, and his hair would have been sleep-disheveled and messy, and he would have turned and seen her approach. Despite the ever-present circles under his eyes, he would have offered up a smile and a quiet "good morning, Mother" before turning back to the view as the sun broke over the early-morning horizon.

Angeline leans against the counter, staring into the endless view out the window. Today, it's been nine long years since the last time that boy told her that.

As she suspected, she's not the only one awake for long. Butler is as silent as always, and she jumps when she realizes that he's come up behind her and is looking out the window as well.

"Christ," she says, a hand to her heart. The corners of his lips flicker, but the amusement is minimal. His eyes have bags to match hers.

"Tea?" he asks, going through the motions before she even begins to give an answer.

"Yes, please," she says unnecessarily, even though he has the kettle out already, reaching around her to fill it up at the tap. He rests his chin on top of her head, sighing as he looks out the window again. Angeline closes her eyes.

"You're up earlier than usual," Butler says when the kettle is full, setting it on the burner.

"I couldn't sleep," she replies, unable to take her eyes away from the brightening horizon. In her mind, a phantom scream is passing over the grounds like a cold front, only kept at bay by the fortified walls of the Manor and the strong man at the stove.

"I know," he says grimly.

"You had very interesting dreams," she comments offhandedly, but he knows it's anything but. He snorts, reaching into the cabinet for the bread he had made the night before and the toaster.

"Of course I did," he murmurs. "It's a big day, after all."

Angeline casts her eyes to the drain while he cuts some bread and toasts it for her, pulling out the jam made from the blackberries in the garden. A big day indeed. She knows that his nightmares are inevitable and a thousand times worse than hers, but it didn't stop her from having them every one of the few moments that she slept the night before.

"Here." His voice is gentle in the cold, slowly brightening kitchen as he hands her her steeping tea and the plate of toast and jam. "Good morning."

She thanks him with a small smile, but he thinks that her face is too hollowed and bony, her eyes gaunt and emaciated in their sockets. She sits, her gaze drawn back to the window, and just stares. After a moment, he pushes the plate toward her.

"Eat," Butler says softly.

Angeline starts, looking at the man who's replaced her husband in her life, and lets him guide her hand to one of the pieces of toast. Her eyes well up, and she almost says what's on her mind, but he shakes his head.

"I know," he whispers, and once he's sure that she's going to feed herself he gets up and digs in one of the overhead cabinet until he has what he needs. He returns to her, palming the two-toned pill, and places it on her plate. She's at least chewing on a little bite, he notices, and then she takes the Prozac and downs it with a gulp of peppermint tea.

They sit silent for a moment, letting the pill settle, and then a soft, almost gentle hum fills the house.

After nine years of practice with cheating on her husband, Angeline knows the sound of the garage door immediately. Butler, being the head of security, recognizes it too. Their eyes snap together.

"Shit," Angeline says shortly, and bolts for the service stairs. Butler takes a huge bite of toast to disguise her little nibble, and right on cue, Artemis Fowl the First walks through the garage door, looking tired and stiff as usual.

"Good morning, sir," Butler says, hopping up. "You're back earlier than expected. Do you want breakfast?"

Artemis Senior waves him away, sitting down at the kitchen island and plopping his briefcase onto the granite. "No, thank you," he said. "I contracted food poisoning on the jet this morning. I don't feel up to eating."

Butler nods, sitting back down and resuming his disguise of eating Angeline's food. Artemis Senior lingers at the kitchen island, the dawn highlighting the grey in his hair, before moving on towards the stairs. Beckett slides down the banister and lands on the tile with a little hop, offering up nothing more than a "Hi Da!" before skittering up to Butler and demanding pancakes.

Butler pretends not to notice how the Fowl patriarch's eyes narrow as Beckett crawls from the counter to the top of the bodyguard's shoulders.

* * *

That night at dinner, Artemis Senior announces their surprise family vacation.

"I'm on business in Los Angeles next week," he says. "I'm only occupied for one day, so I thought that afterward, we could travel north and experience both some nature and the beaches in one trip."

At one point in their lives, this would bring on some excitement, but for years Artemis Senior's eyes have been dull and lacking their sparkle, and this moment is no exception. Myles rolls his eyes, Angeline sighs and picks at her fish, and Butler slips up enough to make his lips barely tighten. Only Beckett appears the slightest bit interested.

"Can we visit Disneyland?" he asks, still retaining his boyish bounce. Myles groans.

Artemis Senior nods. "If you like, Beckett. Myles, if you don't want to come, you may go somewhere else with Butler and…" He glances at his wife, who's done little to betray her reaction. "Angeline? Will you be attending that particular outing?"

She forces a smile at Beckett, who's too little like his older brother to see the falsity behind it. Myles, however, sees right through her. "Of course I will," she says. "Unless, Myles, you want me to be with you?"

"Do what you wish, Mother," he drawls. "Whatever makes you happy."

Despite years of practice, Angeline can't stop a glance from flying at Butler. "We'll see how I feel," she says in the end.

"There is fantastic shopping in LA," Artemis Senior supplies, and Angeline can't help but bite her tongue at how little her husband knows her nowadays.

"Yes, dear, I have been there," she says slowly, reigning in the sharp retort she wants to give. Artemis Senior returns to his food, and for a moment, Butler feels pity for the defeated man. But that moment doesn't last long. A lover doesn't easily forgive the man who abandoned his woman in her time of need.

"Do I really have to go?" Myles asks after a common moment of awkward silence around the dinner table. "I have things to attend to here."

"It's a _family_ vacation," his father says at the same time his mother asks "What kind of things, dear?" The unhappily married couple glance at each other before turning their attention back to their son.

Myles scowls at his father and looks to his mother. "An experiment," he says breezily. "With human brain fluid, which, by the way, was _not_ acquired off of the black market. This time."

Beckett makes a face.

"As long as you say so," Angeline replies, thinking of the illegality of most of Artemis's actions. If all Myles wants to do is deal in illicit markets, she's completely fine with it. "I think he should be allowed to stay," she says to her spouse.

"No," he replies firmly, though the conviction behind it is shaky. "This is a family vacation. I want us all there."

"For what, Timmy?" she snaps, unintentionally harsh. She hasn't said his real name in years, but the pet name has lost its meaning. "What does California hold for us as a family?"

For a single moment, his face falls, but he quickly recomposes himself. "I feel like I haven't been connecting with all of you," he says. "I miss my family. I want to be a husband and father again."

_A little too late for that,_ Butler nearly says, but he holds his tongue when he sees Angeline tense. After all, cluing a powerful once-crime-lord businessman into the fact that you're screwing his wife is never a good idea.

The twins sit awkwardly side by side as their parents stare each other down, letting the fish go to waste.

"Fine," Angeline finally says, returning to her food. "But we're smuggling Myles's experiment with us."

Artemis Senior nods shortly, stabbing into his fish.

No one speaks for the rest of the evening.

* * *

If he didn't know better, Butler would be concerned about Angeline's lack of enthusiasm. She's packed, ready, and waiting five days before the trip without a moment of shopping. Sliding around the house like a ghost, she hovers around, staring out windows, barely touching her food, sitting quietly, introspective.

He knows she's preparing.

Minutes after Artemis Senior leaves on his three-day business trip to Abu Dhabi, Angeline strides down the grand staircase looking positively radiant, dressed for a day out in the Irish summertime. Despite the twins demanding breakfast, Butler can't keep his eyes off of her in the fitted white capris and sleeveless nautical shirt. The bright red lipstick, the huge, playful sun hat. She looks good on purpose, for _him_. She slips her sunglasses on with a wink.

"I'm going shopping," she says. "Why don't you boys join me for a picnic lunch around one?"

"St. Stephen's Green?" asks Butler.

"Sounds lovely," she replies, and waltzes out the door to the garage. Within seconds, she's speeding away in her favorite car; a sporty red convertible. Stereotypical, but perfect for a women who tries to forget that she's married.

When they meet up in the park, Angeline's thin arms are so covered with bags that they seem near breaking. Butler quickly relieves her of her load, ushering her down to a fine lunch of elaborate sandwiches on homemade bread and a salad straight from the garden. From the outside eye, they most likely look like a proper family, giggling and talking avidly while they eat the simple, beautifully crafted meal Butler has made. Even Myles smiles from time to time.

Chewing on an escaped tomato, Angeline looks at the man wrestling with her sons and thinks that, despite everything, she's very lucky.

The three boys engage in a game of rugby with a ball Butler has magically produced from the small picnic basket. Myles hangs back at first, but reluctantly adapts to the game. Butler goes easy on them, letting them – meaning Beckett – win. Angeline watches by the sidelines, playing cheerleader until Butler walks off the grass slightly out of breath.

"Your boys really do take it out of me," he grins. His smile falters as they both think of the one whose name they never say.

"Butler!" Beckett hollers, the ball under his arm. "We're gonna go play with those guys over there!" He points to a few secondary schoolers across the green for a moment before running off, his unenthusiastic twin in tow. They watch the boys go, Beckett whooping in the summer air, Myles looking over his shoulder in a silent plea for intervention. It doesn't come.

The unlikely pair sit side by side on the blanket, their fingers barely touching. They pretend not to notice.

"What would you think of me if I divorced him?" Angeline asks suddenly. Butler frowns. The question is ill suited for the bright, cheerful summer day.

"I won't pretend that it hasn't crossed my mind," he says slowly, turning his face up to the sunlight. "It's your choice. You can keep cheating on the man you're unhappy with, or you can be known as the woman who left her exorbitantly rich husband for the bodyguard."

"You assume I would stay with you," she says softly.

His heart leaps into his throat, and he thinks of the nightmares he has when she's not by his side in the darkness. "You would," he said, more sure than he feels.

"Yes," she replies with a frown. "I would."

For a single second, he wants to tell her about his nightmares, about reliving the day when his entire being ripped in two, about when he sees the shredded remains of his charge flopping pathetically towards him with the intent to strangle him, about when he dreams that _he_ is the one with the blade, that _he_ is the one ripping the screaming, agonized boy to shreds.

But that second quickly passes, and he doesn't tell her. He knows she has her own nightmares to struggle with.

* * *

Juliet shows up unexpectedly the day before they leave for California. Butler feels his heart swell at the sight of her; tanned and toned from the months in Mexico, as beautiful as she's always been and then some. He knows he can't keep his baby sister safe forever, but the big brother in him is determined to try.

"How have you been?" he asks when he releases her from a tight bear hug. "I've barely heard from you."

She twists her neck, stretching, and then attempts to punch him in the diaphragm. He catches her hand easily. She sighs.

"I've been busy," she says in mock consternation. "So many fans screaming my name, so many camera flashes catching my beautiful face for all to see…" She bats her emerald green eyelids. "It's so _difficult_."

"I'm sure," he says, taking her luggage for her. "Just so you know, we're all leaving tomorrow."

Juliet groans theatrically, flopping herself down onto an antique couch. "Whyyyyyy?" she whines, stuffing her face in a pillow, but when she surfaces, she's grinning broadly.

"This is why we call ahead," Butler scolds her, placing the smaller pieces of luggage in the dumbwaiter.

"Psh, that's for amateurs," Juliet says, waving the problem away. "I'll just come with you, obviously."

"You don't even know where we're going."

"As long as it's not like Antarctica or something, I'm pretty sure I can handle it." She taps the tip of her index finger on her lower lip. "Actually, I _could_ handle Antarctica, easy – after all, Madam did a four month crash course there with a surprise simultaneous earthquake and KGB attack to make things more interesting – but it's more of the idea of how much I really _feel_ like it."

Butler observes his sister for a moment. Beautiful, skilled, and an absolute badass. Yes, he is very proud.

"Well, lucky for you, California is just about as opposite Antarctica as you can get," he says, piling the rest of her bags at the bottom of the stairs. "But I highly doubt you want to come."

Juliet fakes a pout. Butler, as a grown man, feels uncomfortable, knowing that many a gentleman has crumbled under that face. But it's the less-than-gentlemanly ones he worries about.

"Trust me," he says in a low voice. "This trip is a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage."

All humor immediately wipes from her face, and she looks far more mature than she did even seconds before. "I thought something was up," she murmured. "They barely looked at each other the last time I was here, and that was… what, a year and a half ago?"

"Mm."

She looks mildly embarrassed. "Have they at least… you know, _tried_ to make things better? Talked it out, seen a marriage counselor… or, you know, therapeutic sex? That always helps."

Butler turns away, rearranging a clutter of picture frames on a table. "It's past saving in my opinion," he says, intent on not meeting her eyes. But her suspicious silence is enough to tell him that she's caught the scent. She is a Butler, after all.

She slinks to his side without a sound, her eyes narrowed. He ignores her, dusting off a couple of frames, noticing that there are no longer pictures of Artemis on the table. When his silence has bugged her enough, Juliet snatches away the frame he's tidying up and leans against the table.

"Something you want to tell me?" she asks slowly, dangerously.

"No," he answers calmly.

"Dom," she says shortly. "If you had been a good actor, you would have gone down _that_ career path. What have you done?"

His lack of an answer is enough. Juliet's face contorts with rage.

Butler manages to see the base of the lamp coming for his face a split second before it hits, and it's only thanks to his years in the Academy that he manages to duck. Juliet wields the thing like a terrifying mix between a club and a spear, advancing on him easily after missing him the first time. Had he not known her personally, Butler would have been unable to tell that she had never earned her Blue Diamond.

The heavy base comes for him again, and the dodge sends it into a glass case containing several shelves of original porcelain figurines. Very old. Very expensive. Butler winces as the lamp shatters the glass and beheads a few smiling children.

"You _disgusting pig!_" Juliet shrieks, heaving for him again. This time he catches it and rips it from her hands, placing it off to the side.

"That's an antique, Juliet."

She charges him.

She's good. The only reason Butler manages to keep her from really hurting him is because of their sheer difference in size. She yells at him, throwing punches and kicks and fighting plain _dirty_, her nails scrabbling at his face and her teeth snapping for his neck. Butler takes the abuse, only disarming blows that could hinder his ability to protect the family on their vacation. But he lets Juliet hit him. After all, he does deserve it.

"What," comes a quiet voice from the top of the stairs, "is going on here?"

The siblings freeze, their heads whipping to the sound. For a minute, Butler has the vague worry that he's had another heart attack. Artemis Senior stands silently at the next landing, a hand on the balcony. It's impossible to tell how long he has been observing.

Juliet forces a dazzling smile. "Nothing, Mr. F," she says, bounding up the stairs and giving him a tight, uncomfortable hug. "I've got a promotional video coming up and Butler was just helping me with the fight choreography." She eyes the decimated case and offers up a sheepish grin. "It got a little out of hand. It was my fault. I'm sorry."

Butler has to give her credit; the girl is _good_. His heart slows down a tad.

"It's fine," Artemis Senior replies, not entirely sure what he's really walked into. "I wish you had called ahead, Juliet. We're leaving tomorrow morning for Los Angeles."

Butler clears his throat and gives her a pointed look. She steadfastly ignores him.

"We can make arrangements," Mr. Fowl says. "You're welcome to come with us."

Juliet beams. Butler's spirit flattens a little bit more. With a woman determined to fix the family on the road with them, this trip will quickly become unimaginably awkward.

"Juliet?" comes a familiar voice, and Juliet is squealing and dancing into Angeline's open arms, bouncing around excitedly. Butler hides his own smile as Angeline's face lights up, eagerly listening to Juliet babbling on a mile a minute.

"Ohmygawd, Angeline, I'm _so_ sorry I showed up unannounced – oh, and I'm also really sorry about the little clay thingies down there that I smashed – but I've heard there is _so_ much good shopping in L.A. and when you live with wrestler women things get so butch and _depressing_. Can we go shopping, Angeline? Please?"

Angeline laughs. It's such a rare sound that the great room momentarily lights up like it's a holiday. Juliet waits expectantly, turning up her puppy dog eyes even though she knows what the answer will be.

"Of course," Angeline says, looping arms with her surrogate daughter. "I wouldn't miss an opportunity to spoil my favorite girls-day-out partner."

Juliet whoops in joy as they head somewhere deep into the second floor, her glee echoing around the house. Butler knows it is short-lived. Happiness never lasts long in Fowl Manor, and Juliet will be back soon to yell at him again.

Artemis Senior watches the two women go before retreating the opposite direction into the second floor, not once giving Butler a glance of recognition.

The one-time bodyguard doesn't mind. He doesn't really deserve anything from the previous crime lord but hatred.

* * *

Minerva calls when Butler is getting ready for bed that night.

By now, most people outside of Fowl Manor have forgotten that Artemis Fowl the Second ever existed, much less that he was brutally murdered in his own backyard. But every time Butler looks at the French girl – not girl; woman – he sees that same haunting that hides behind his own eyes. She's striking, with fragile features and a rather petite frame. She'll look good on any man's arm, but the one she wanted is long gone. Butler doesn't have the heart to tell her that he was never interested even before his untimely death.

"Butler," she says by means of hello, briefly waving on the screen. "I was on the subway today in Paris – _tu te rends compe? _Me, on a subway? – and I received some rather shocking news."

For one painful moment, Butler feels some of the hope from the old days between them; days when it was always a possibility that Artemis would come home. He chooses a less aching route to address. "What on earth were you doing on a subway?" he asks, allowing a smirk to surface.

She rolls her eyes, waving a hand in the air as if the question were silly. "I'm doing a personal study, for context of writing, observing the life of the average man in the rat race. It's been rather disgusting so far, if you ask me."

He raises his eyebrows. "You're writing again?"

"Yes, yes, I know," she says. "A hopeless dream. I doubt I will ever admire my own writings as much as I admire the masterpieces of others."

"I don't think you're supposed to."

"Anyway," she says, and Butler finally realizes that she's upset. "The news I received."

"Do go on," he says, rubbing tiredly under one eye.

"It's about the Nobel Prize I was nominated for," she mutters, barely audible, looking down. "I didn't win it."

Butler cocks his head, knowing that, in her world at least, this is a monumental issue. "How can you possibly know that?" he asks. "They haven't released the results yet."

"I have a friend in the committee," she says. "He called me." She drops her head into her hands, her curls spilling in front of her face. "I feel like such a _failure_, Butler."

For an instant, he sees black hair instead of blonde, lit solely by a harsh computer screen as a young boy cries for his insane mother and absent father. But that image vanishes quickly when Minerva brings her face by up. Her eyes are red and watery, but she hasn't cried yet.

"I suppose it seems childish to you," she says. "Crying like a toddler over something like this."

"There's nothing wrong with crying," Butler says, but she scoffs.

"I've never seen someone like _you_ cry," she replies without thinking.

He raises an eyebrow. "Believe me," he says dryly. "It _has_ been done."

Minerva halts, thrown off track. "I... _mon dieu_, Butler, I am so sorry."

"We all occasionally speak without thinking," he answers. "Even geniuses — or rather, genii."

"They're both grammatically correct," she says by means of an easy out. "In other news, I hear you are traveling to Los Angeles tomorrow."

"How did you —"

Minerva taps her temple.

"Right," Butler says, knowing that, by now, he should have long learned not to ask. "What about it?"

"I don't care for that city," Minerva says. "Just... _fais gaffe, mon ami_."

Butler risks a tired smile. "When am I not?" he says. "I'll read a book on the trip, just for you."

"_The Great Gatsby_," Minerva commands. "F. Scott Fitzgerald. It's an American classic."

"All right, all right," he replies. "It's late, Minerva, and I'm flying the jet in the morning. I need to sleep."

"Go, go," she says. "_Je t'aime_, Butler."

"You too," he answers, and she disconnects the video conference. Shaking his head, Butler turns out the lamp, looks over the security monitors, and crawls into bed, his aching joints rejoicing in the refuge of sleep.

* * *

**Do me a solid and leave a review, if you please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I am terribly sorry for the wait; that pesky thing called life got in the way, as it's been known to do. In this chapter, a few references are made to WolfButler and Steinbock's collaboration fic All in a Night's Work, which is on WolfButler's account. It's a good fic; I highly suggest you go read it. Those references might just pop up again later, Wolfy, just so you're aware.**

**And for all of you who read and didn't review... you know who you are. I got a hugely lower review average for the first chapter than I've ever gotten, even when I was brand spankin' new, but I got just about my normal amount of hits and Story Alerts. So all I'm saying is if you're reading, please review. Even if it's just a blurb of whether you liked it or not, and (if you're feeling nice) why, reviews are always nice. Now read on, and fill in that nice box at the end.**

* * *

**2. A Smattering of Crashes**

The morning is uncomfortable. Butler fights to rub the sleep from his eyes, and, noticing this, Juliet opts to make a light breakfast for the family. Though she hasn't forgiven him, she's been observant, watching the cautious interactions between her brother and Angeline, and shaking her head at the constantly irritated behavior of the married couple. To keep at least the twins' spirits up, she makes pancakes in the shapes of animals. Beckett gleefully munches on a snail and a cow. Myles rolls his eyes but accepts his blueberry elephant.

In a rare quiet moment, she pulls Butler off to the side. "Don't think I'm not still mad at you," she says, but there's concern behind her eyes. "You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"

"I never sleep well anymore," he replies, making to return to the kitchen and clean up the inevitable mess Juliet has left in her wake. She stops him firmly.

"Domovoi," she says, perhaps sharper than she means to. "You've _got_ to stop blaming yourself for what happened."

He glances to the side, and then pulls her into a rarely used service hallway. "You can't possibly understand," he whispers. "You've never given up your life for a principle."

"Try to explain it," she demands. "It's been nine years, Dom. Why does it still plague you like this?"

Butler looks away.

"You think I don't know?" Juliet whispers. "I could _hear_ you last night, Dom. You talk in your sleep."

"Madam would kill me if she knew that," he said, desperate to change the subject.

"You know what you were saying?" she asks, refusing to budge. He refuses to look at her, and so she takes his jaw and forces him to. Her face is fierce.

"What, Juliet?" he snaps. "What, pray tell, was I saying?"

She searches his expression for something, but doesn't find what she wants. "Five words," she says. "'Artemis, no, please God no.' And then you cried." She shakes her head, letting his jaw go. "Why are you sleeping with her, Dom?"

"Because..." He gives up, sighs, and turns around, making to go, but Juliet's hand clamps down on his shoulder.

"Domovoi Butler," she says. "I still have half a mind to beat you to death. Why?"

She's surprised when her brother turns back toward her, a different man. A broken one.

"Because for a few moments, I don't have to think of him," he says, his voice cracking. "About how much it must have hurt to be ripped to pieces. About how hard he must have screamed. About how deeply he must have hoped I would come and save his life, like I was always supposed to."

"Dom," she whispers.

"Mr. Fowl abandoned her when she needed him most," he says. "And I lost my own coping mechanism. We naturally drew to each other."

"And you've been doing this for _nine years_?"

"Yes."

She shakes her head. "And he doesn't know?"

"Mr. Fowl? I don't know. He might."

Juliet just stares at him before going back to the kitchen. Butler looks after her, saying one last thing silently to her back, hoping that somehow she's be able to hear.

_I love her. I love her so much, Juliet. Please understand._

But she doesn't turn around.

He stands there for a few minutes more before Angeline comes looking for him, concerned. She catches the residual red in his eyes but he waves her concern away. After all, there's work to do.

* * *

Los Angeles in July is seething. Though the temperatures are just warm — barely over 80, Butler notes — the place feels hotter, crowded by people. Juliet rejoices, giving Beckett a piggyback ride through the LAX crowds as she dances in the sound of taxis and rolling suitcases.

"I've only been gone from Mexico for like 36 hours and I already missed the heat," she moans, hugging a concrete pillar exuding warmth. "Ireland is so _wet_."

Butler's eyes are going crazy, constantly scanning the area, but he suspects that nothing will really happen. Already, the family aura has gotten more morose; the marrieds don't speak, strained by the long ride squeezed together in first class (Angeline refused to burn fuel on the jet) and Myles looks completely unhappy to be away from his lab. While his experiment is packed (illegally) in a large Pelican case, his lab is full of specialized equipment that Artemis left behind, decades ahead of anything he could find in the world's best laboratory.

Juliet and Beckett make for something like comic relief, dancing around and whooping. They draw stares, but obviously the two don't care. They're chattering away as Butler inspects the hired car for bombs and begins loading luggage. Artemis Senior checks his watch.

"Are you late?" Angeline asks politely.

"To some extent," he replies just as stiffly. "It doesn't matter. _I'm_ hiring _them_."

Angeline is unimpressed by his response, and the conversation dies as quickly as it started.

"Ooh, Juliet, look!" Beckett hisses excitedly, pointing. "It's Benedict Cumberbatch!"

She laughs, turning to crane her neck as a tall man accompanied by private security slinks through the crowd in a way that makes it clear that he would rather not be noticed. "What kind of name is that?"

"He's an English actor. Why is he here, though? He's bloody brilliant, he is."

"Beckett," Angeline reprimands. "Language."

"Sorry, Mum."

Butler finishes his bomb check (and, as usual, finds none, but he's learned the hard way that one can never be too careful) and they make their way through the Los Angeles traffic to the Andaz in West Hollywood. They pile their luggage into their rooms, and instantly, Artemis Senior is off to his meeting with a business partner of his, leaving his family at the whim of Juliet, who knows the ins and outs of the enormous city like the back of her hand.

"I say breakfast for dinner. Who's with me?"

Beckett cheers, and Angeline concedes. Myles rolls his eyes. And so they go through more traffic until they reach a tiny little diner on Cahuenga and Regal called The Good Neighbor.

"Best pancakes on the planet," Juliet announces, and Butler has to admit, when he snags a bite off of her plate, that they're pretty damn good. While enthusiastically passing the syrup back and forth, Beckett and Juliet decide for the entire family that they're going to the Mt. Shasta ski resort up in McCloud for the summer hiking season before heading back down south for Laguna Beach.

"I can't _believe _that the locals are calling this weather hot," Beckett gushes. "I feel like I'm in heaven."

"If you've got money and you can ignore the occasional earthquake and the drivers, California is a paradise land," Juliet says, stuffing her mouth full of pancakes. "I just wish it were winter so I could see my brother on skis."

Butler snorts, knowing full well that in winter he'd be far too preoccupied with making sure Myles didn't crash into every tree on the slopes to even think about donning a pair. The one time Artemis had attempted to ski had been utterly, laughably disastrous — stop.

Betty, the sister of one of Butler's fellow Academy graduates and the co-owner of the diner, notices Juliet and Butler from the kitchen and heads over immediately. Juliet almost crushes the older woman with her hug.

"How's Banana, Bet?" Juliet asks once she's done squeezing the life out of the owner.

"I don't know," Betty replies grimly. "Haven't heard from him in months. He took a job out near USC and I haven't talked to him since." She looks to Butler, who's still standing in the corner with a view of the entire room (the plate glass windows are making him nervous). "Have you, Blueie?"

"Not a word," Butler rumbles. "I don't keep in touch with the old crowd much anymore."

"I heard you lost your charge a few years back," Betty says brusquely. "I'm very sorry."

The atmosphere of the room is suddenly like the most fragile of glass. The other patrons, clueless to the conversation, wonder if the temperature has suddenly dropped twenty degrees. "Yes," Butler says stiffly. "Thank you."

Betty catches the hint that she's gone wrong and nods, patting Butler on the back. "Take a seat, _Cookie_. You're making my customers nervous."

All three Fowls swivel their heads toward Butler with identical confused looks cast upon their faces at the name. Juliet snickers; Betty smirks. Butler bares his teeth.

"I'm fine standing, if you don't mind."

"Have it your way," Betty says dismissively. "By the way, Juliet, Cheyenne was in here the other day. She was looking for you and —"

Juliet slaps a hand over Betty's mouth and flashes the sweetest, most terrifying smile anyone in the room has ever seen. "Ah ah!" she says. "We're not talking about that right now."

Butler's curiosity piques, but Betty just rolls her eyes and nods. Juliet lets her go with a friendly, body-rocking punch on the arm.

"Say hi to Rick for me," Juliet says. Betty slams a hard whack towards Juliet's diaphragm, which the wrestler catches easily. Betty sighs.

"Will do," she replies, and looks to Butler. "Tell me if you hear from Banana. I'm worried about him."

Butler nods; Betty heads away. Angeline sends him a questioning look and he just shakes his head.

"Don't ask," he says brusquely. "Trust me."

Once the bill is paid (just about the least expensive meal the Fowls have ever seen) they pile back into the car and, despite Myles's groans that his experiment needs attention, Juliet takes control of the navigation and points Butler up Mulholland. They wind up the hills, taking some streets that are most likely closed to the public, until they reach the pinnacle. Juliet leaps out of the car, followed by Beckett, and they look out over the vast city. It's exceptionally clear for Los Angeles. Beckett leaps around in excitement over seeing the ocean from the city and even Myles admits that the marine layer and smog are at a minimum. It's poignant, the three standing at the lookout. Juliet slings an around around each twin as the cool desert breeze washes over them.

Angeline approaches where Butler watches critically, calculating how much closer the boys could step towards the edge before he stepped in. She leans up against his arm and he starts, momentarily jolted out of pure-bodyguard-mode.

"She may not have gone all the way with her diamond," Angeline says, "but she might as well be one. You know she's good. She'll make sure they don't fall."

He nods stiffly, but doesn't stop worrying. Angeline sighs and moves to the edge; instantly, his concern triples. Juliet only has two arms, after all.

But in the end, after Juliet has pointed out every area of LA that she can and Beckett's attention span has waned, no one falls down the cliff. Briefly, Butler looks at the back of Myles's head and pretends it's Artemis, his black hair fluttering in the breeze and his sleeves reluctantly rolled up to his elbows. But then the boy turns around and Butler sees a different face than he wants to, and he forces himself to remember that his charge was violently killed in his own backyard.

Angeline catches his eye in the rearview mirror and he knows that her thoughts mirror his own.

* * *

Artemis Senior arrives back at the Andaz late. Juliet and Beckett are watching _The Devil Wears Prada_, piled on the couch with homemade popcorn (where Juliet got the machine is a complete mystery). Angeline is watching Myles work, and Butler is torn between watching Angeline and watching the doors and windows. When the patriarch enters the suite, there are deep rings around his eyes, and Butler immediately restricts his watching to _only_ the doors and windows.

"How was it?" Angeline asks, keeping her eyes fixed on a delicate stage in Myles's experiment.

"It went well," Artemis Senior replies. "With any luck, Fowl Enterprises should have a new clean energy company tacked on to it within twenty-four hours."

Angeline makes a small, polite noise of interest, and devotes the rest of her attention to the tiny movement Myles is making with his filaments. The brain fluid rests in minuscule vials, mere centimeters from his delicate fingers. Artemis Senior watches the pair hungrily for a long moment before his eyes flick up to meet Butlers. He nods curtly before heading into the master bedroom.

To everyone's surprise, he returns and settles on the couch next to Beckett and Juliet. Beckett immediately tells him about their tentative travel plans — "hiking, Da! It'll be fan_tas_tic!" — and Juliet suggests they leave the next morning to avoid the weekend crowd.

"Angeline?" Artemis Senior asks from across the room. "How does that sound to you?"

"I think a breath of fresh air would do us all some good," she murmurs, eyes fixed on Myles's work as he moves the filaments between his heartbeats. The room quiets, save for the quiet chatter of the movie, and a few minutes later Artemis Senior stands. He crosses the room to stand behind his wife, places his hands on her shoulders, and kisses the top of her head.

"I'm turning in early," he announces. "I'll see you all in the morning."

All eyes are on him — even Myles's, which haven't left his experiment in hours — as he exits and retires to the master bedroom. Such displays of affection are rare in the family, especially when coming from the head, and Butler and Juliet's eyes meet over the top of the couch. Angeline's spin curls forward, her eyes flicking over Myles's work without really seeing it. Her body screams guilt.

Soon after, she gives Butler one last look and then follows her husband to bed.

* * *

The I-5 is hell to drive on the next day, which Butler has to work to assure himself is normal and not some direct terrorist threat to the family. It takes several hours of Beckett attempting to get a rise out of Myles before leave the traffic of Los Angeles behind and several more to reach Highway 89. Beckett and Angeline engage in a brief disagreement about whether or not to roll the windows down once they're away from the Interstate — Angeline says no, for fear of allergies and the ruination of her hair, while Beckett says yes because "it's _Cali_ air, mum!" — but eventually Artemis Senior is suckered out of his laptop and breaks in with a stern "The windows stay up. End of story."

Artemis would have agreed on that point, Butler thinks to himself.

Juliet, though, longs for the breeze, and eventually she and Angeline reach a compromise of opening the sunroof (something Butler is extremely opposed to, but Artemis did things he was extremely opposed to all the time and look where it got him — stop). Somehow, they find an indie station on the radio that everyone can agree on and their unpleasant, traffic-ridden drive from earlier is left in the dust.

For a moment, Butler can forget about the incident, but once glance in the rearview mirror is all it takes to remind him that Artemis isn't with them.

Along the way they've stopped at a few gas stations and parks to allow Beckett room to let out a bit of his energy, but for the most part they've made good time, and spirits are higher than they've been in quite some time as they turn onto the park highway. It's a narrow, twisting two-lane road that immediately piques Butler's highly sensitive bodyguard nerves.

"So, Juliet," Angeline says over her shoulder, and the blonde in the passenger seat turns around. "Who's this Cheyenne that Betty mentioned?"

Juliet sighs dramatically, throwing her hands in the air. "Oh, her. She's just some chick in our league who I go shopping with when we're in the same city. I've gotten kind of sick of her so I've been avoiding her lately, but —"

"I call bullshit," Beckett says casually, and then slaps a hand over his mouth with all the other Fowls shoot him disapproving looks (Myles simply for the plebeian vocabulary, of course). "Sorry, Mum, honest."

Butler gently presses down on the brake as he comes up behind a minivan going twenty miles an hour under the speed limit. The approaching car and semi are too close for his liking, so he waits to pass.

"What?" Juliet asks indignantly. "She's annoying. I don't want to hang out with her anymore."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Beckett sing-songs. Butler knows she's bluffing as well, simply because he's very well tuned into Juliet's method of lying, but he's preoccupied with the fact that the minivan has started to sway in its lane. He quickly analyzes— quick, harsh corrections within acceptable accuracy range points to texting, not inebriated — and puts more space in between the hired car and the van.

"I don't get it," Juliet protests. "What's the problem?"

"You can't lie to me, Jules," Beckett says gleefully. "You're hiding something."

"No, I'm not!" she retorts.

"You are so!"

"Oh, really? Please, inform me how exactly I'm not being honest here."

"You're a closeted lesbian and Cheyenne is your current secret girlfriend," Myles says flatly without looking up from his laptop, and that's when the van jerks too far to the left and plows head-on into the approaching black sedan.

It all happens very quickly then. This is nothing that Butler hasn't been trained for, so, with his adequate air cushion between the rental and the van, he slams on the brakes and veers slightly off-road to avoid the three-car pileup. They pass the wreck just as the sedan begins to settle back to the ground from its collision with the minivan, the passengers like rag dolls, and then the semi-truck smashes into the back left of it, making it accordion in the middle of the vehicle sandwich. If it weren't for Angeline's scream of "Stop the car!" Butler would have kept on driving. As it is, he immediately brings the car down to a standstill, adrenaline pounding through him, his body itching to defend against a nonexistent threat.

In a flash, Angeline is out of the car, sprinting for the settling wreck and dialing emergency services, gasping "Go, go, please, we have to help them!" Glass is still falling to the ground, but Butler is after her, his feet pounding as he pursues the woman he loves in favor of the rest of the family, still in the car with his sister. But no; he hears Juliet running behind him. Artemis Senior, the shadow of a man that he is, has chosen to stay in the comfortable luxury vehicle with his boys; an acceptable choice, since Beckett, at least, will be extremely shaken.

He overtakes Angeline quickly, informing her as he passes that if the engine starts to smoke she is to get as far away from the vehicle as possible. It's a gruesome scene ahead; the black sedan smashed between the incriminating minivan and moving truck. Nobody moves in the van, and the windshield of the sedan is so smashed that it might as well have been opaque. Blood covers the driver's side, slowly leaking down the shattered glass. The only person moving is the stunned truck driver, slowly making his way out of the cab.

Butler hears the screaming first.

He vaults over the van's crumpled hood, making for the passenger side of the sedan, where the horrible sound is coming from. A young woman, perhaps twenty-five, is limply hanging in the passenger seat, sobbing and screaming wordlessly. While her lacerations are minimal, her neck doesn't seem to want to support her head. Her cries are muffled by the door. Butler tries to open it, but the crash has jammed it shut.

She notices him, then, and manages to control herself enough to form her screams into words. "Oh, God, please –"

"I'm going to smash the window," Butler shouts to her, and she dutifully turns her head away, sobbing. The impact of his elbow to the window sends a shudder through the sandwiched car, and it takes much of his considerable strength to rip the mangled door away. The woman is slumped, crying desperately, and Butler is momentarily struck by how much she looks like Holly; tan, redheaded (dyed), and long-legged. He shakes the thought away. There are people to be saved.

From what he can see, the driver died on impact. She's a slight, caramel girl, her dark hair done in braids and stained with blood, the windshield covered in scarlet and the steering wheel jammed into her chest. She's not breathing. Butler can only see one of the two in the backseat; a young Asian man, his legs at horrible angles and his eyes glassy and staring into nothingness. His neck is obviously broken. Butler leans, but he can't see the other body in the backseat. The crying woman is in the way.

"Listen," he says over her screams. "I'm going to help you, but you need to calm down."

She tries; he knows she really does, but he also knows from experience that trauma and seeing your loved ones dead in front of you can make even the most hardened of men scream like children. He kneels by her, trying to see the other person in the backseat, but the windows are so splintered that it's like trying to see through a brick wall.

Quickly, he assesses her condition, gently touching her neck. "What's your name?" he asks to distract her a bit.

"M-Micah," she whimpers, flinching as he tweaks her neck a bit. "Next t-to me – Frankie – is she –"

"She's dead, Micah," Butler says, as gently as he can. He knows the feeling she's having well. "I'm sorry."

Micah breaks out in a fresh round of sobs. Butler draws her hair back from her face, at a loss for words, and tries again to see the other body in the back.

"Who's in the backseat?" he asks.

"S-Shawn, beh-hind F-Frankie – " Her breathing hitches. "Is he okay?"

"No, Micah, I'm sorry," Butler says, eyeing the man with the broken neck. "He died too."

She wails.

"Who is the one behind you?" he asks.

"N-No," she sobs. "I can't kn-now. I can't t-think ab-bout it."

"Micah, I need you to tell me his name," Butler says. "I need to see if I can get him conscious."

"Is h-he alive?"

"I don't know," Butler replies, smoothing her hair back again. "I can't see him."

"H-Henry?" she calls. "Henry, are y-you ok-kay?"

The body in the backseat doesn't respond. Butler's heart sinks. This poor young woman could easily turn out to be friendless after this accident.

"I'm going to smash his window," he tells Micah, who's face is a swollen mixture of tears, blood, and cuts. "I'll let you know, okay?"

She squeaks out a reply, and Butler moves to the backseat door. The glass is so completely broken that it takes barely more than a bump to knock the crack-whitened window out of the frame. Henry is slumped over sideways, his head cradled on the door of the car, but his chest is rising and falling slightly. Butler opens his mouth to speak, but stops short.

"Butler!" Angeline screams from the van nearby. "Oh God, Butler!"

But for once, the bodyguard can't go to her. He's rooted to the spot, the concrete gripping his shoes and dragging him down. He's forced to grab the car door for support, cutting his palms on glass.

"Butler, this baby's not breathing!" Angeline cries, sobs beginning to fill her voice. But Butler, ever the faithful bodyguard, ever protective of his lover, somehow can't bring himself to care.

"Is h-he okay?" Micah asks in a very small voice.

Butler can't seem to make his mouth work.

"Oh G-God, is he d-dead too?" she eeks out, and begins to cry again. Butler can't make himself reply to ease her pain. Gently, he touches one of Henry's pale wrists to feel for a heartbeat, and there it is, rushing through the veins with vitality that contrasts the defeated picture of the unconscious, black-haired young man.

"Butler, where are you?" Angeline screams.

Butler doesn't reply, ripping the door off of the car. He catches Henry's head before it can fall, cradling it gently in his massive palm, and gently, ever so gently, he sits him up, knowing his neck is extremely fragile. Henry's head stays limp, his hair strewn about his face, until Butler supports him on the back of the seat and slowly tips his chin up. Instantly, his stomach drops to his knees and his breath stops cold in his chest, and he slowly pulls up one of Henry's eyelids.

Deep blue stares, unconscious and unseeing, up at him.

Micah's and Angeline's sobs blend together, melting away like a damaged oil painting. Butler swears his heart shudders to a stop as the entire world goes still, the sound of approaching helicopters disappearing and the wind halting instantaneously. It's as if, collectively, the entire planet has taken a breath is surprise and is holding it momentarily. Butler drops to his knees.

In the back of the crumpled sedan, bloodied and broken and completely unconscious, Artemis Fowl the Second is utterly oblivious as to how much he's just thrown everything Butler knows into disarray.

* * *

**Shtoobs, you win the award of noticing that Artemis was still listed as the main character in this story.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Mm. I'm terribly sorry for the unspeakable delay, but life is crazy. Let's leave it at that, shall we? **

**A quick recap, in case you don't want to reread the last two chapters (though I encourage that over this): Artemis has been dead for almost a decade, but a family trip to California makes the Fowls think twice about what they thought was a fact. Butler finds a man in a car crash who exactly resembles his late charge.**

* * *

** 3. A Mystery Unfolds**

Butler comes to when a car door slams, shattering the shocked silence that has formed. Micah and Angeline's cries crash back on his ears, and the emergency helicopters shudder in the sky. He looks up; two young people, a boy and a girl, are stepping horrorstruck out of a pickup truck, staring at the sedan.

His gaze snaps back to the young man – this "Henry" – and he feels his stomach drop all over again. It's not just that the man greatly resembles the Fowl heir; the body is older and elongated, lacking the little remaining baby fat that had been there the last day he had watched the boy walk out of the house, and the jaw and cheekbones are more defined. But to the Blue Diamond, the one who pledged his life, the one who gave up everything to watch his charge grow up from the day he was born, this young man is inescapably Artemis Fowl.

The woman reaches the car first. She's the same age as the other, and remarkably like Juliet in looks, but she pays Butler no mind for hellos. Micah reaches for her, crying harder than ever, and the blonde takes her hand, staring at Shawn's body. The boy, slams into the driver's side, screaming Frankie's name, tears streaming down his dark face.

The blonde is keeping her cool remarkably well, but her hands tremble in Micah's.

Butler looks back to his charge, honing in on a tiny birthmark just behind his right ear. He feels a rush of relief; another marking proving this to be his Artemis.

"Brooke," Micah whimpers, and the blonde looked away from the two dead on the left side of the car. "Brooke."

"I know, hon," Brooke says over the boy's wails. "It'll be okay. We'll get through this."

Juliet comes to find him when the helicopters land. She's covered in someone else's blood, irritated that Butler hadn't come while Angeline was crying, but she stops short when she sees whose neck he's supporting.

"Is that – ?"

"Later," he replies as the paramedics rush over to the sedan. Brooke quickly gets out of the way while they gingerly move Micah onto a stretcher, hurrying her over one of the helicopters. Brooke follows them, boarding in the copter alongside her friend. The boy climbs into the spot where Micah had been sitting, hopelessly attempting to revive Frankie. The next batch of medics quickly gets down to business on Henry, treating the unconscious young man with care. His ID is extracted from his wallet, and they begin to rush away with him.

"Does he have anyone to go the hospital with him?" Butler calls, immediately loath to break his connection with his long-lost charge. The paramedics glance at the dark boy, who is still sobbing in the car, and shake their heads. Butler immediately follows them into the helicopter. Angeline, who has apparently been informed by Juliet what's happened, watches them with red eyes.

Butler asks where they're headed, and is given the answer shortly. The paramedics eye his size as he clambers into the helicopter, contorting to avoid crushing the unconscious patient. "Juliet!" he calls. "Mercy Medical Center."

She nods, takes Angeline by the arm, and heads for the car, where Artemis Senior and the boys are waiting. A paramedic gives Butler grief about the space he takes up, but a look from Butler shuts him up.

The flight to the hospital seem agonizingly long, thought Butler knows it to be less than fifteen minutes. The hospital staff descends on the landing helicopter like vultures, whisking away the stretcher practically before Butler can blink. The paramedic leads him to a waiting room where he's left among the sick and the barely injured. He almost sneers at the broken bones and stitches-worthy cuts. They seem so trivial in comparison to the horror that he has just seen.

Juliet arrives within an hour, the Fowls in tow. A very tired ER nurse approaches Butler only a few minutes later. He has to admit that Mercy is efficient.

"You're the one who came in with Henry Foster?" she asks shortly. He nods, and he once more places the Fowls' safety in his younger sister's hands, following her through a web of hallways until they're deep in the ER. She saunters through a doorway, entering a room with three beds. Only one is occupied. Once more, Butler marvels at seeing his charge's whole body intact.

"He has severe whiplash in the neck and back, a fractured forehead, and a probable concussion," she said in a monotone. "And of course, the expected lacerations, abrasions and bruises. All in all, he was lucky. Very, very lucky. From what we've gotten faxed in, the truck swerved and only hit the left side of the car, and the head-on collision also resulted on the left side. Had he been sitting in one of the left-hand or even middle seats, he likely would have been killed on impact."

Butler swallows loudly. Henry doesn't stir.

"When he wakes up we'll run an MRI and a full-body CT to make sure everything's okay on the inside," the nurse said. "You're welcome to stay here until visiting hours are over."

"Wait," Butler says, sitting as she turns to leave. "Have you called someone? A friend or relative?"

The nurse looks at him blankly. "That's not my job," she says, and marches out the door. Butler stares after her.

It's not too long until the Juliet lookalike – Brooke, he remembers – appears at the door, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen but her stance completely at ease. "Oh," she says when she reaches the door. "You were at the accident."

Butler nods. Somewhat awkwardly, Brooke sits in a chair beside him, playing with her fingers and shooting him occasional looks. He waits patiently, knowing she'll ask eventually.

"Who are you?" she finally blurts out. "I mean, I wasn't thinking of it at the time, but Micah told me that you ripped the doors off the car with your bare hands. And that you took care of them like any medical person would – I mean, most people would just stand there and call 911, but you threw yourself into it…" She trails off, not entirely sure where she's been going with this. "Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. And I'm Brooklyn Marshal." She offered her hand.

"Butler," he returns, and gives her a firm handshake, glad that he had sought out a first aid kit to cover the cuts on his palms.

"Just Butler?" she asks.

"Just Butler," he confirms. She nods like she gets it, but it's obvious that she doesn't, so she goes back to staring at her friend on the hospital bed. Suddenly, the shrunken, nervous girl in the chair doesn't seem all that much like Juliet, especially when the real deal bursts through the door with the entire Fowl family in tow.

"Okay, you," Juliet announces menacingly, pointing at her brother. "You've got an awful lot of explaining to do." Then she notices Brooke and stops. "Oh, sorry."

"It's okay," Brooke says quietly at the same time that Butler says "How did you even get back here?"

Juliet shrugs. "The usual. Proclamations that I don't speak English, some well-placed tears, and a whole lotta being a ninja badass."

The silence resounding throughout the room is horrendously awkward. Brooke shifts in her chair, blushing as it sends a shrill, plasticky shriek across the linoleum tiles. Only Beckett, as attention deficit as ever, looks at her, but it's enough to turn her entire bronze face a deep pink. Artemis Senior watches Angeline and Butler's silent conversation closely, trying to decipher the eyebrow raises.

"Right," he says after a moment. "Juliet and I are going to take the twins to the hotel if you two are intent on staying with this _boy_."

Angeline and Butler shoot him identical looks of disbelief as Brooke decides that this situation has grown far to awkward for her cracking facade and leaves. Juliet raises an eyebrow as Brooke pushes past, muttering something unintelligible.

"Mr. Fowl," she says slowly. "I don't know if you really understand why we're here —"

"It's not him, Juliet," Artemis Senior snaps. "Artemis is dead. He's gone; I saw the remains and by no means have I lost my mind enough to engage in false hope over some doppleganger nobody we happened across by coincidence." He glares at his wife and bodyguard. "The boys and I are leaving. Join us when you're ready to stop playing pretend."

He sweeps from the room, an uncomfortable Myles, confused Beckett, and reluctant Juliet in tow. As she rounds the corner into the hallway, the younger Butler notices her brother slip something small into his jacket pocket.

Angeline stares after her husband, unsure if she's upset or not about his outburst, and then turns back to the unconscious young man on the bed. The silence is thick and uncomfortable, and it drags on as nurses come and go and the light coming through the dirty window changes.

Finally, Butler ventures to speak. "Angeline —"

"It's got to be him," she says. "I mean... look." She looks up at him with some of that old madness in her eyes. "You knew him better than I did, Butler. You raised him better than his own parents. Is it Arty?"

The pet names draws out some sort of slumbering beast that claws at Butler's heart, remembering days spent in a tiny house on the Irish coast, waiting for a genius to appear out of nowhere. Days spent alone, when he was considered mad in everyone's world save for Minerva's and Juliet's. Exhausted, he looks down at the prone figure, swaddled in stitches and a neck brace.

"I don't know," he admits. "I want to think so, but... I've taken a blood sample that I'll send underground tonight — Christ, how am I going to tell Holly? I can't get her hopes up in case it's... not him."

"If I were Holly," Angeline says, "I would hate you if you didn't tell me."

They sit in silence for less than a minute before Butler pulls out his old, adventure-worn fairy communicator.

* * *

Holly is just crawling into bed after the longest shift of her life when her screen informs her that she has an incoming call.

She groans, giving her pillow a longing look, and squints, bleary-eyed, at the screen. With a sigh, she commands the computer to answer the call, flopping down on her blankets as Butler's face fills the screen.

"'Sup?" she grumbles, her face mashes into the sheets. "You know, this screen makes your face look about four times bigger than it actually is. It's freakish, especially for you. But hey, big man. You look tired. It's been a while."

Butler's expression contorts from one of exhaustion to a vaguely embarrassed hue. "Eh... Holly."

"Mmph?" she grunts into the blankets.

"You do realize you're on camera, right?"

She glares up at him. "No, I've just been using this method of communication for about a hundred years and I still don't realize how it works. Yes, I realize I'm on camera."

"Do you... want to go and put something on?"

She barks out a short laugh and pulls a face. "Really? I'm wearing the same unsexy, unflattering LEP regulation undergarments that I've been wearing for my entire sweaty, exhausting shift and I was just going to bed after a horrible day and you're asking me if I want to _get up and change_?"

Butler is quiet for a moment. "That bad, huh?" he asks after a moment.

"You have no idea," she says.

"Try going through Madam Ko's Academy," he retorts. "So I guess if you're too tired to roll out of bed without ripping me a new one, you're going to _really_ hate me when I tell you I want you to come to the surface."

Slowly, Holly looks up with murderous, bloodshot eyes, shooting daggers. Butler immediately feels lucky that they're communicating through a screen.

"Seriously?" she asks, and Butler nods before swiveling the camera past Angeline, who is sitting anxiously in the background, and toward a still, battered figure on a hospital bed. Holly pauses the moment she sees his face, her tired eyes instantly awake as her focus flicks over his cheekbones and the length of his nose. Unconsciously, her fingers trace the bottom lid of her blue eye.

The camera goes back to Butler, whose expression is grave. "Seriously," he answers.

"D'Arvit," Holly says. "Call Foaly. I'm on my way."

* * *

Before Holly can get there, the body on the bed jerks awake violently.

Butler is instantly on his feet. Artemis — Henry — damn it — breathes spasmodically, his fingers gripping at the sheets in a fit of panic. His eyes are wide and glassy from pain medication, flicking around the room like a rabbit's.

Angeline quickly grabs one of his tense hands, squeezing it gently. "Shh, you're okay," she says. "You're in a hospital."

"I — I —" he gasps, struggling to focus on her face.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asks

"Henry," he gets out, his accent American instead of Irish. "What — why —?"

"You were in a car accident," she says, laying a calming hand on his chest. Butler watches silently, remembering why she is such a spectacular mother. "You're going to be okay."

"Micah," he says, trying to sit up. Butler takes him by the shoulders — more muscular than his hands remember — and lays him back down.

"She'll be fine," Angeline soothes him.

"And Shawn. Frankie." His eyes are wildly dilated, almost swallowing up the blue.

"Don't bend your arm," Angeline says, avoiding the subject. "You'll push the IV the wrong way. Do you want me to get Brooke?"

He doesn't answer, his eyes glazing over. Angeline brushes his hair away from his spectacularly bruised forehead. It's as if the room itself is tense and silent, not just its inhabitants.

"That was his voice," Butler says softly. "Undoubtably."

Before Angeline can respond, a ragged-looking, plump woman appears in the doorway and throws a hand over her mouth with a gasp. A gangly teenage boy looks out from behind her, nervous eyes flicking over the room.

"Oh my god," she whispers before practically flinging herself into the ward and pushing past Butler to get to Henry's bedside. The boy hesitates in the center of the room as she sits on the edge of Henry's hospital bed, taking the hand that lacks an IV in it, and turns to Butler.

"Do we know you?"

Butler shakes his head and explains the situation, reciting Henry's injuries by memory. The woman looks up anxiously, holding on to Butler's words like they're a lifeline.

"Who else was hurt?" she asks the moment he finishes.

He pauses. He's no stranger to delivering bad news, but it doesn't make it any less awful. "A girl named Micah was also admitted. Brooke and a boy whose name I didn't catch were in a separate car. Two of them — Shawn and Frankie, I think — died on impact."

The woman sighs heavily and digs her hands deep into her hair. The boy swallows and reaches out a hesitant hand. Butler shakes, and Angeline follows.

"I'm Wess," he says, his voice cracking in the throes of a change. "That's my mom. Henry's my brother."

"I'm Iris," she says, not bothering to raise her head. "Thank you so much for staying with him until we got here."

It's a clear dismissal, a fact which clearly stresses Angeline. They bid their goodbyes and leave. Butler texts his hotel room number to Holly, who, as he learns from a stern phone call from Foaly, is now flying at highly illegal speeds over the greater Los Angeles area.

"You might have mentioned to her that this is not a complete and total crisis?" he says crabbily, chomping on a carrot in the background.

"It _is _a complete and total crisis, Foaly," Butler replies.

"Yes, well. She's breaking her _own_ landspeed records. That's a big deal."

"I'll give her the blood samples I took. She'll have to come to the hotel."

"Oh, goody. Human dwellings are always such fun to deal with."

"Stop whining. I have my own room. It shouldn't be an issue."

Angeline is wiped by the time they get back — Los Angeles traffic is a nightmare, especially during rush hour — and breezes past her questioning husband to collapse in bed. Juliet corners her brother, but since he can't have her around when Holly arrives he gives her a halfhearted command to get the twins ready for bed and locks her out of his room just in time for an irritated-sounding rap to sound against the sliding glass pane.

He opens it and Holly materializes inside his room, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"I can't be at the hospital without you there," she says by means of introduction. "_Please _tell me you got blood samples."

Butler slips the plastic hospital vials from his shoulder holster. "I wouldn't deserve my diamond if I hadn't."

Holly takes them, handling them so tenderly that they might have been precious, infinitely fragile specimens. Butler sighs.

"They're not glass."

"Hush."

She slides them into her belt, patting them nervously. Her eyes slide to the door.

"We haven't talked in a while," she says. "How are they?"

"Managing, as they have ever since."

She hears the trace of exhaustion in his voice, and her eyes flick back to him. "And how are you?"

"Mm. Also managing."

"Butler."

"Holly."

She sighs, leaping up onto the foot of his bed — a daunting task for someone who is a hair over three feet tall — and runs a hand through her slightly greasy, still-sweaty hair. "Has he found out?"

Butler pulls out his Sig and sets it on the hotel desk, sliding the magazine out to combat the defensive instincts of the officer in his room. "Maybe. I don't know. He's a smart man."

"But he still hasn't confronted you, after all this time."

"No." A moment of slightly uncomfortable silence as Butler pulls out his kit and starts to clean his gun. A decade ago, it would never have been anything but at ease. "How is everyone?" he asks as he breaks down the Sig, laying the barrel, slide, guide-rod, frame, and magazine (thought not before emptying it) down onto a towel in a mechanical routine that is easing to the heart.

"Good," she says. "Trouble's cranking away as Commander. Still as good as always. Dating Lili, actually, and it's probably the longest relationship that either of them has ever had. Foaly's found himself another mare and both she and Cabelline are expecting. Mulch is — well, he's courting Doodah, if you can believe it."

Butler raises an eyebrow, never taking his eyes off the bore. "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Interesting."

He pulls his first patch from the barrel, wrinkling his nose slightly. A shame, that he's let his uncle's gun get this filthy. "And what about you, Holly?"

She snorts, kicking her boots off. "Me? I'm trucking along, same old, same old."

"All of our other friends seem to have significant others down below. Do you?"

"Ah..." She frowns, picking at the bedspread. "No. I don't. I just can't, uh..."

"No need to embellish if you don't want to. I saw what was happening between the two of you before he died."

She flinches, barely perceptible, on the last word, and nods. Butler's ripped the Band-Aid off, and the elephant in the room is blatantly standing over both of them.

"Did he die?" she whispers.

He lowers his bore brush, settling barrel back onto the towel, and turns to face her. Deep blue meets dichromate. "I don't know," he whispers. "I was so sure he had, but I just _don't know_."

"Foaly confirmed that it was his blood and... body parts," she says with some difficulty. "Tell me what happened today."

Butler does so; her brow furrows deeper with each and every detail he provides.

"The exact same, down to the freckles on his nose," Butler finishes. "American accent though, not Irish. Distinct lack of vocabulary. Convinced his name in Henry. Hell, the woman even said she was his mother."

Holly opens her mouth to extrapolate, but her helmet interrupts her.

"Oy. Turn on your TV, mud giant."

Butler sighs at the familiar voice, but before he can even stand Foaly's impatience gets the better of him and the plasma screen flickers to life of its own accord. The centaur, as usual, is eating vegetation.

"Is that an _onion_?" Holly asks.

"Mmph. Now, about our boy here —"

"Your poor wives," Holly mutters under her breath, earning herself a glare from the centaur.

"Yes, well. Anyway." His eyes flick over his various screens. "Henry Foster has one hell of an interesting backstory. And, incidentally, his and Artemis's timelines match up almost perfectly." His brow furrows. "Henry showed up about three months after Artemis died in upstate California. A hiker and his son found him unconscious in a totaled car at the bottom of a rocky ravine. He had no ID on his person and the plates led to nowhere. It was presumed that he stole the car and lost control on the mountain road. But," he says slowly, "when he woke up in the hospital he had no idea who he was or where he had come from."

Butler and Holly glance at each other.

"The doctors aged him about fourteen — Artemis was sixteen, but he always was a little scrawny — and named him a ward of the state. Within half a year he was adopted by the Gellman family and has lived in California for almost a decade."

Butler rubs a hand over his scalp, but Foaly lets out a little half-laugh that brings his eyes back to the TV. "What?"

"Now _this_ is interesting. Because there were no records available, the state let Henry choose his own birthday." His eyes lock on Butler. "January 9th."

It takes a moment, but Butler's eyes widen, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair.

Holly quirks an eyebrow. "What's so special about that?"

"Oh-one-oh-nine," Butler tells her. "It was our passcode. His birthday."

"His birthday was in September," Holly argues.

"The notation reverses between America and Europe," Foaly tells her, his jaw tightening. "0109 is September 1st in Ireland."

"Artemis's birthday," Butler says softly.

"Buckle your seat belts and prepare for turbulence, lady and gentleman," Foaly says. "We've just stumbled across a whole lot of weird."

* * *

**Please take a moment to review, and happy holidays to you all!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Six. Months.**

**It's been six months since I updated this fic (and pretty much had any significant activity on this website), and I'm incredibly sorry for that. Some very tough stuff happened — and I know I've said that in the past, but these last six months take the cake. It was a very dark period of my life. I am, however, moving on and starting new. At the end of August, I'll be moving to New York and starting that big adult thing called college. If any of you live in the area, I'd love to meet you.**

**It wouldn't hurt to re-read the last three chapters, just so you know what's going on. Thank you for your patience, and thank you to those of you that asked me where I had gone and if I was okay.**

* * *

**4. Complications Arise**

_In all his life, Butler has never felt panic like this._

_He's faced the worst that the world has to dish out; trolls, various mafias, the MI6 and every other government program under the sun, Madam Ko's Academy, and his little sister in a tantrum. He's faced death; he's taken countless bullets, he's scaled mountains and fallen down canyons, he's been left alone to guide a 10-year-old boy through grief, he's been trapped in burning buildings, and he's died. But nothing accounts to the absolute terror rushing through his body as sticks slash at his face and claw at his clothing, trying to hold him back as he crashes through underbrush. Before, he had a clear target. He knew where Artemis was when the gun was pointed at his head, and he knew how to land if he wanted to survive a fall of epic proportions. But here, all he's doing is following the blinking light of the distress signal through endless forest. He's practically blind._

_No. There is no panic that compares to this._

_Angeline's ragged breathing and clumsy footsteps have faded away, replaced by the pounding of blood in his ears. He digs back, following the signal as he sinks back into the training that has been drilled into his mind since birth. He is no longer a controlled, careful bodyguard. He is a killing machine, and he's hunting._

_A Butler is nothing without his Fowl._

_Somewhere, in the distance, the barest ripples of a scream find a way to shudder through his bones. Any semblance of humanity in his body immediately dissipates, dissolving into thin air as his vision goes red. His tendons scream for relief as his legs power to a near inhuman speed, the trees flashing by in a deadly blur. On the screen of his phone, the signal grows closer and closer, a frantic, flashing red._

_And then, without warning, he breaks into a clearing, and the signals meet._

_Immediately, Butler knows it's too late. It's silent and still, like something that just been traumatized. He stomach drops when he smells blood hanging heavy in the air. Little clues start flashing in; grass, torn up like someone was clawing to get away from something, splatters and pools of a deep, sick red covering leaves and dirt, a scrap of black cloth – and then his heart stops. _

_It's unlike anything he's ever felt before. A horrible chill spreads through his chest, sinking and biting its way through his muscles and veins, and he loses control of his legs, dropping to the ground. Heat shoots through his face and – and he's crying. He's crying, and then he realizes that he's sobbing, a guttural, primal sound making its way through his lips and spreading through the stagnant, death filled air as he forces himself to crawl forward and reach out to what's left of his charge. _

_Barely any of Artemis's pale skin peeks out between the criminal spatters of scarlet, but the amount of blood is unfairly disproportionate to the skin. Butler's trembling fingers meet the torn cheek, and then they draw back sharply as if they've been shocked. _

_The tiny, leftover remains of Artemis's lower jaw and the front of his neck are tucked, quietly and almost peacefully, into a little corner of the clearing, and Butler can't bring himself to touch them again._

_The world spins. He can hear crashing; Angeline is coming. He should get up and keep her away, keep her from seeing the horror that is her son's remains, but he can't move. He's sobbing and curling into himself, the most livid and in the most pain that he's ever experienced in his life. It doesn't compare to being burned alive or drowned or tortured to the point of losing one's mind. It's beyond anything._

_And for a moment, Butler lets himself think that he's died and gone to hell._

* * *

"Dom. _Dom!"_

Butler starts awake, and he's fingering the safety of his newly cleaned Sig before he registers that the voice belongs to his sister. It's dark in his bedroom; silty Los Angeles street light filters through the curtains. According to his watch, it's three in the morning.

"You still wear this sleeping?" Juliet grumbles, tugging at the band.

"Artemis gave it to me. I never take it off."

"Yeah, okay," she says, rubbing at her eyes. "Anyway, you were making some pretty awful sounds in your sleep. Woke me up."

He tugs at a lock of blonde hair that's worked its way from her messy bun. "Sorry."

"It's cool. Just didn't want you dreaming about things that make you of all people make those noises."

She yawns widely. Butler takes her hand and she climbs up onto his mattress, flopping down over his feet. For a moment he marvels at the wonder that is his little sister.

"Who's Cheyenne?" he asks softly.

Juliet stuffs her face into a pillow, sighing deeply. "I was hoping you had forgotten about that," she says. "What with the car crash and the whole bizarre Artemis doppelganger thing that happened directly after Myles's lovely little announcement."

"Jules."

She sits up, scowling. "Yeah, okay. Fine. She's my girlfriend. You got a problem with that?"

Butler snorts. "Please. I've been in a dysfunctional relationship with my employer's wife for nine years. Feel free to explain to me how you dating a girl could possibly bother me."

Juliet holds his gaze suspiciously before dropping her eyes to stare at her fingers. "You don't mind?" she mumbles, five years old again.

"No," he says, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Dad would have minded," she says, frowning.

He nods. "He would've tried to beat some sense into you. But I'm not dad, and if he were here I would have stepped in before he could lay a single finger on you."

Juliet shoves his shoulder playfully. "Don't even. I could easily hold my own in a fight with that old bastard, diamond or not."

Butler laughs. "I know you could." He pulls her into a hug, burying his nose into her hair. She smells like gunpowder, gym chalk, and the same girly shampoo that she always has. He holds her tightly. "Yeah, I know."

"I love you, bro," she whispers.

"You too," he says gruffly, pulling away. "When can I meet her?"

Juliet shrugs. "Hell, I don't know. She must have stopped by the Good Neighbor looking for me right before she flew out to London."

"What's she doing there?"

Juliet scratches her head, looking sheepish. "Eh... I think her mark is Kate Middleton, but I could be wrong."

Butler whistles slowly. "Assassin."

"Damn good one, too."

"You keep her far away from my charges, Juliet."

She laughs. "Don't worry. She knows to consult me beforehand if it's anyone she thinks may be important."

Butler swipes at her head; she catches it easily, giggling.

"Go back to bed, Jules."

"Yeah, yeah, okay mom."

He shoves her off the bed and she lands like a cat, loping from his room and closing the door behind her without a sound. The faint smile has barely faded from his face when his television flickers back on.

"Oh good, you're awake," Foaly says before chugging a good half a cup of sim coffee. "Holly's passed out on my couch. My processors are almost done with these samples."

Butler sits up, resigning himself to the idea of not getting any more sleep before the sun rises. "That was fast."

Foaly's lips purse, the tips of his ears reddening. "Trust me, it would have taken a lot longer if I didn't have some of his old DNA sequences on file."

Butler raises an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

Foaly nods noncommittally, and does a quick double take when he notices the look Butler's giving him. "What? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you're actually surprised that I have blood samples from when we brought you two down before rescuing his father?"

Butler rubs his eyes. "Unfortunately not."

There's shuffling from offscreen before Holly's voice joins the conversation. "Wuzgoin on?"

"Good morning, sunshine," Foaly says snidely. "You've slept all of fifteen minutes."

"You're being loud," she says grumpily, slouching on screen and squinting at something in the Ops Booth. "What've you got?"

"Well, congratulations," Foaly says, and drags some data into Butler's view. "It's a boy."

"It's him?" Butler says.

"That or a very good clone, and since it seems to be a conscious human being I highly doubt that this body was bred in a lab."

"He's got two blue eyes," Butler muses.

"Easy peasy," Foaly says, waving him away. "I already peeked at a few photos of him from his Facebook account and if you compare irises his blue eyes are completely identical. I could go into genomes, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear that nerdgasm, so I'll summarize. Two different color eyes attract attention, and so whoever did this replaced his hazel eye with a twin of his blue eye. Sorry, Holly."

Holly pouts, the skin under her own dichromatic eyes bagging and bruise-colored. "That asshole."

"Oh please," Foaly snorts. "You just liked having a mark on him."

Holly smacks him upside the head.

"I think whoever's done this did a little more than switched out his eyes," Butler says, fingering his gun. "Like leave us thinking that Artemis was dead for the better part of a decade."

"Yeah," Holly said, turning to her centaur friend, who was busy rubbing the tender back of his skull. "How did Butler find vital pieces of Artemis's body and yet here he is nine years later completely okay?"

"Simple," Foaly grumbles. "So simple that I've never even thought about it as a possibility — stupid, stupid. The pieces Butler found had to have come from a clone. There's no way that Artemis could be alive without the front half of his neck, obviously."

Holly breathes out long and slow, scrubbing her hands through her short hair.

"The LEP closed this case years ago," Foaly says. "Human business isn't our business, after all. But you never stopped trying to find out, did you?"

"I thought it was a human culprit before today," Holly replies. "But it can't be, not now that we know."

Foaly threads his fingers together, resting his chin in the hinge. "And what fairy do we know who uses illegal clone activities, has a grudge against Artemis Fowl, and is still at large despite our best efforts?"

Butler finger's toy with the safety on the Sig.

"Opal."

* * *

Angeline is the first Fowl to make it into the suite's kitchen that morning. Butler looks up from cleaning his Barrett sniper rifle as she makes a small, pained noise.

"Oh God. You're cleaning the specialty guns." She pulls out a chair from the formal table, taking a seat and pulling her dressing gown tighter around her shoulders. "What's happened?"

Softly, Butler explains the findings of the early morning. Angeline grows more and more pale as he explains, and ends up winding a stray thread around her index finger until it turns purple.

"We have to go back to the hospital," she says quietly after a very long, very uncertain pause. Butler rumbles, not necessarily in agreement. She sighs, massaging her temples. "How is Holly dealing with this?"

Butler begins putting his rifle back together. "She's..." He pauses, searching for it.

"Feeling trigger-happy?"

"We both are."

Her half smile is terribly sad, and Butler wants nothing more than to wipe it from her face. "She's a good woman. I would have loved to call her my daughter-in-law, however much of a dream that might have been even before he..." She looks back down to the thread, winding, winding.

"They were headed down that road," Butler says. "If anyone could have made a cross-species, completely taboo love story work it would have been those two."

Angeline sighs heavily, stands, and heads to put on the kettle. Butler grabs her hand before she can pass him. Her shoulders stiffen.

"How are _you_ dealing with this?"

She doesn't answer, instead glancing to the master bedroom door and, seeing no sign of her husband, leans down. Their noses slide together, and she kisses him.

"We'll see," she says, her breath playing at his lips before she straightens up and bustles on to make tea seconds before Beckett charges into the room, Myles following like his shadow.

"Butler!" the blonde twin cries delightedly, as if he weren't expecting to see the ever-present bodyguard there this morning. "Can you make pancakes?"

"You had pancakes just the other night," Angeline calls over her shoulder from the stove.

Beckett is practically vibrating with energy — positively criminal at this time of morning, if Myles's body language is any clue — and Butler is somewhat baffled that the hyperactive boy hasn't rattled out of the visual spectrum. Angeline scolds him halfheartedly from the stove, and Beckett hops over to her, distracted.

Myles takes a seat at the table, eyeing Butler's rifle.

"Barrett M107 sniper rifle," he states. It's not a question. Butler nods.

"You know your guns."

Myles cocks his head, inspecting the rifle as Butler slots the final piece in. "Will you teach me how to use one?" he asks.

Butler raises an eyebrow. "A sniper rifle?"

"Oh, no. Nothing so specialized. A handgun." The corner of his lips quirk up, perfectly mirroring Artemis at that age. "In case I find myself without you."

Butler stares at him for a long time before leaning down to place the Barrett snugly into its case. "Yes," he says, leaning up and folding his hands on the tabletop. "I will teach you how to shoot when you're ready."

Myles's brow furrows. "Ready?"

"Yes. It takes a steady hand and a strong control of fear to take on the responsibility of carrying a gun. Neither of which you have."

Myles scoffs. "You truly think that the hands that build microfilaments aren't steady?"

"Not enough to bet your life on."

"And I don't have control over my own emotions?"

Butler sighs heavily, listening to Angeline and Beckett's chatter before turning to the boy before him. "Myles," he says. "Let me tell you something."

"Is it because I look like him?" Myles asks, steepling his fingers. Butler lets out a long, slow breath and shakes his head.

"Artemis wasn't fond of handling guns."

"Would he still be alive if he had been?"

Butler kneads at his temples. "I don't know. I doubt a gun would have saved him from the person who killed him."

Myles raises one dark eyebrow. "You know who it was?"

_Shit_. "I've had my suspicions for years," Butler says. "It's not important. He was on the grounds. He would have thought he was perfectly safe, so the fact that he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn is irrelevant."

Myles inspects his bodyguard for quite some time before he speaks again. "Who is the man you went to the hospital with?"

Butler's eyes darken. "That's none of your concern," he says. "Can I make you breakfast?"

Myles's lips thin, but he concedes to a cup of Earl Grey.

* * *

Once Artemis Senior is up and about, Angeline not-so-subtly suggests that Juliet take the boys to the hotel pool (Beckett cheers, but the look that Myles gives his mother is one of pure mutiny) and sits her husband and lover down.

"I think we need to talk about what happened yesterday," she says. Artemis Senior sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Angeline," he starts, but she holds up a hand to silence him. Feeling sorry for him, Butler goes about making him tea.

"You're being short-sighted and stubborn," she tells her husband. "I know you refuse to believe that it's him, but I truly think that this warrants a deeper investigation."

"It's not!" Artemis Senior says sharply. "You've been stuck in this halfway state ever since he died, Angeline, and this is nothing more than wishful thinking on your part. I understand your need to help the world, but I think you're much safer playing with endangered species than you are with car crash victims who vaguely resemble our son!"

"Halfway state?" she questions quietly, her lips turned down. Butler tries very hard to focus on the kettle.

Artemis Senior seems to realize that he's treading a dangerous line and backs down somewhat. "I'm just saying that I don't think this incident should attract such concern. Artemis is dead. Let him stay that way."

"He didn't let you stay that way," she shoots back. Artemis Senior flinches. At that point, the water boils and Butler decides that it's time to intervene.

"I took blood samples and had someone I know analyze the DNA," he says, letting the tea steep. "I know you believe otherwise, Mr. Fowl, but she's right. It's 100% your son."

Artemis Senior looks to be at a complete loss. Butler hands up a cuppa, and he takes it wordlessly.

"How did this happen?" he whispers. Briefly, Butler relays all he's learned from Foaly, editing out the fairy bits. By the end, Artemis Senior looks as though he really wouldn't mind walking out to the balcony and toppling over the side.

"I will never understand this family's trend for traumatically dying and showing up again years later," he says, downing his tea like it's brandy. "Though this whole 'new identity' thing is a first. How is something like this even supposed to resolve?"

"We can hardly just walk up to the hospital and tell them the truth," Angeline says.

"We could, actually," Butler responds. "It's just a matter of whether or not they'd believe us."

"'Oh, hi, we're the people who rescued your not-really-son from that fatal car crash the other day,'" Angeline says mockingly. "'Just popping in to say that we illegally took blood and discovered that he _actually_ belongs to us even though he can't remember a single thing about us and we were just wondering if we could take him back to Ireland at the end of our family vacation?'" She kneads her temple. "For some reason I can't imagine _that_ going over very well."

Artemis Senior fiddles with his teacup, brooding. "I suggest that we wait a few days, until he's been released from the hospital and allowed to go home."

"No," Angeline says worriedly. "I don't want to wait. Something might happen and —"

"Angeline," her husband says, reaching across the table and placing a hand over hers. She stops, staring. He so rarely touches her these days.

"I really do suggest that we wait," he says. "Let things settle. Beckett still hasn't gotten that trip to Disneyland."

"Disneyland," she whispers.

"Just wait for him to be better," he says. "And then we'll make our move."

* * *

So they wait.

It's without a doubt the longest three days of Butler's life.

Disneyland is great for Beckett and Juliet, but the rest of the family is anxious (or, in Myles's case, is flat-out pissed that he has to be there). The day spent shopping and eating at the Grove is tense and forced. The most solace comes when Juliet's had enough and packs them all up to head to the beach. She manages to procure a section of private cove in Laguna Beach from nowhere — "Call it connections," she says with a wink — and whips up a gorgeous spread for lunch. It's peaceful, letting the waves push and pull against them, and for once they're a proper family; Angeline and Artemis Senior play in the sea with the boys and Juliet in the sea while Butler guards, as always. He likes it here, he thinks. If it weren't for the distance, he'd dream of retirement.

While drying off, he receives a call from below.

"They're discharging him," Foaly says. "Pretty bad concussion and an order to be exceedingly gentle with his head, but nothing lasting."

Butler stands on the sand, watching the family trailing in the shallows and feeling like he's missing a piece of himself.

"I'll send you his address," Foaly says after it becomes apparent that Butler has no intentions of speaking.

"He'll be grieving," Butler muses.

"Yeah, I imagine he will," Foaly replies. "But it's now or never, big man. I'll send Holly up as well."

And so two Fowls, a Butler, and shielded fairy (not to the patriarch's knowledge, of course) end up on the threshold of a small apartment in Burbank. It's a good minute after Angeline knocks that the door opens, revealing a disheveled Artemis — or Henry, rather — covered head to toe in splatters of oil paint and appearing rather flustered.

"Um, hi," Henry says. "Can I help you?"

He's obviously exhausted, bags weighing down under his two blue eyes, his skin sallow and covered with little cuts and some nasty bruises. His forehead is mottled and purple.

"Oh, Gods. His eyes," Holly whispers over Butler's earpiece, a little achingly. He nods almost imperceptibly.

"Hello," Angeline says kindly, her eyes lingering curiously on the ginger paint smeared in his hair. "We were at the accident and the hospital. Do you remember?"

Henry frowns, carding a hand through his messy hair and then looking, perplexed, at the paint left on his fingers. "No," he says after a moment. "Sorry. What time is it?"

"Two in the afternoon," Artemis Senior says, all business. It's clear that he has little patience for Henry's absentmindedness, and Angeline shoots him a glare.

"Oh," comes a voice from behind them, and the four visitors turn as one. Micah stands with a bag full of mail, her face battered and her left arm in a cast. Her eyes lock on Butler. "You ripped the door off of the car," she says.

Butler nods. Angeline quickly takes over the situation and introducing her company — not mentioning Holly, of course. Micah greets them warmly, smiling despite the cuts on her cheeks, and then moves toward Henry, who is aimlessly trailing his fingers up and down his bare forearms. She runs a hand over his bruised forehead, checking his temperature.

"Are you working, love?" she asks gently.

"Yes," he murmurs.

"Go on back. I'll take it from here."

Henry nods vacantly and drifts deeper into the apartment, presumably back to his paints. Micah stands aside to let them by.

"May we all come in?" Butler asks, as if concerned that the apartment is too small to accommodate them all. Micah raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, of course," she says.

"Good one," Holly tells Butler over earpiece as they all traipse through the door. Micah leads them into the cheerfully decorated kitchen, where she puts on a kettle.

"Tea?" Angeline asks, amused. "Not very American of you."

Micah finally cracks a real smile, wincing a bit as her stitches tug. "Henry's influence," she says. "He's an enthusiast." She hands her guests a box of various tea bags. Artemis Senior picks Earl Grey, Angeline, oolong. Butler abstains. Micah frowns as she fetches mugs from the overhead cabinets. "Henry doesn't normally act so... vapid," she says. "He's under a lot of pain medication for his head and he's never dealt grief well."

"And how are you dealing with it?" Angeline asks softly.

Micah smiles tightly. "Let's just say I've had better weeks," she says, and hands Angeline and Artemis Senior their tea. "Where are you from? Scotland?"

Angeline throws back her head in a perfectly-executed socialite laugh. "Oh, heavens no. We're Irish."

"Oh," Micah says cordially, and the conversation dies right there. Micah looks down into her tea for a good long while, and when she brings her eyes back up they're stony. "Why are you really here?" she asks. "Because I know it's not to give us a get-well-soon card."

Butler takes this, as agreed-on. "We're with Interpol," he says. "We're investigating a missing person."

Micah's eyebrow twitches, but she disguises her surprise with a sip of tea. "Interpol, huh?" she says. "International missing person, then."

"Yes."

She sighs. "Look, I hate to break it to you, but we don't have a foreign victim locked in the basement. Hell, we don't even have a basement."

"We're not accusing you of anything," Angeline says soothingly.

"We're actually here to speak with Henry," Butler adds.

Micah blinks, closes her eyes, and downs her tea like it's whiskey. "Right," she says once she's done. "Why, exactly?"

Butler wordlessly pulls a folder out of his jacket, handing it to her. She glances at it skeptically before putting her mug down and accepting it. Her eyes widen the moment she opens the file, looking down at a 10x12.

"What the..." She squints. "Is this Henry?"

"Not quite," Butler says. "His name is Artemis Fowl the Second, and he's been presumed dead for nine years."

Micah flips through the portfolio, taking in photos, her breath stilling when she comes across the crime scene photos. She swallows, closing the folder. "Jesus," she says. "That counts as _presumed_ dead?"

Butler opens his mouth to speak, but his voice fails him. Angeline takes over, explaining the entire debacle, starting with the car accident and going through Foaly's discoveries, omitting the fairy bits, of course. Micah frowns, opening the folder again and pulling out Artemis's school photo, taken less than two months before the so-called "murder."

"Wait here," she tells them, "and feel free to make yourselves more tea."

She walks out toward the living room, taking the photo with her. Butler tends to the kettle, tidying the counters in the silence before the water boils. He can hear Angeline scratching anxiously at the cheap wood of the table, Artemis Senior's slowly, steady breathing. Micah is shuffling something around in the living room. His years of training itch at the back of his mind, suspicious, but he feels an invisible hand on his; Holly can see the tension growing in his shoulders.

He nods tersely, and is just pouring the tea when Micah comes back into the kitchen carrying not one picture, but two. She pauses in the doorway as the three "Interpol" officers turn to face her, and then holds them up.

"Henry's freshman year," she says.

Even Artemis Senior feels his jaw loosen. Aside from Artemis's somber expression and Henry's tentative smile, they're identical.

"Yeah," Micah says. "I would say you've got a good case on your hands." She puts the two photos on the table, gesturing for them to follow. They stand hurriedly, filing after her as she leads them down a narrow, poorly lit hallway and into something one would never expect to see in a suburban apartment complex.

The room before them is tall, covered in paintings, and echoes soft music from an unseen source. The entire ceiling a skylight, flooding the studio with sunshine. Henry stands in the middle, still smeared with oil pigment, and paints furiously, his eyes faraway and distracted. Micah sighs, her hands on her hips, and shakes her head.

"Haven't seen him work like that since he was sixteen," she mutters, drawing curious looks from the Fowls and Butler.

"Meaning what?" the bodyguard murmurs.

She steadfastly ignores him, crossing the long room and waving a hand in front of his face. It takes a few seconds for him to drag his eyes away from his work, and she pulls the brushes from his hands with a gentleness that only a lover can posses. For a moment, they echo Artemis and Holly so strongly that Butler can practically feel his heart ache, and he briefly casts his eyes about for the telltale shimmer of the fairy.

"Take some time off," Micah says. "There are some people who want to ask you a few questions."

Henry frowns. "I'm almost at a stopping point. I don't want it to start drying before I'm done with this part."

She smiles fondly. "You're using oils, Henry; they won't start drying for weeks."

He pouts; she rolls her eyes. "Come on around," she calls to the three hovering in the doorway. "Don't be shy." She turns back to her partner, pointing to his canvas. "Who's this?" she asks.

Henry shrugs, covering his pallet with foil. "Dunno," he answers as the visitors pick their way through the cluttered studio, stepping around canvases and mediums. "I've been having weird dreams."

"Yeah, pain meds will do that, won't they?"

Butler reaches the couple first, stepping around the easel with a full intention to ignore the artist's work and get right down to business. The sharp gasp of a fairy in his ear makes him think twice, and he takes a second glance at the half-finished canvas in front of him.

Painted wildly in oils, an incomplete Holly Short looks out at the assembled viewers with a Neutrino primed and her customary smirk on her elfin face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Whew! Long one. Expect longer between updates this time — I'm about to leave the country for a week and will have no computer on me.**

******This is an extra-long chapter that I ended up having to cut off before I was even halfway through the material I outlined for it. So leave a review, pretty please! Thank you to Empty Thoughts, cleverun, XFireSermonX, summerful21, yelrac, and a very sweet anon for reviewing last chapter — reading a review always makes bad days brighter!**

* * *

**5. The First Two Years of Henry Foster**

_He wakes to total blackness. _

_There's no pressure of a blindfold, and for a moment he fears he's permanently lost his sight. The wash of terror increases dramatically when he realizes he can hear nothing but his ragged breathing. _

_Calm, he thinks. Calm yourself._

_The last thing he remembers is the clearing; earlier, he had convinced Butler that he had not wanted any sort of guard on his walk and had begun to severely regret that decision the moment he felt the tranquilizer needle bury itself in his neck. He recalls, foggily, that he had barely had time to fumble with his watch and activate the panic alarm that should have brought his bodyguard running. _

_Butler would have come, he thinks. I am safe._

_The darkness is not fading. _

_It's a suffocating blackness, pressing down with an almost physical weight. Slowly, he becomes aware that the space around him is enormous; when he calls for help, for Butler, for Holly, anyone, there is nothing for his voice to reverberate off of. There is a floor beneath his feet, but nothing else._

_He decides that there has to be an end to this place and begins to stumble blindly, hands straining to find a guide, calling, pleading. He decides he'll rest when he's tired, but that moment never comes._

_So he wanders through the never-ending blackness for the next six months._

* * *

Butler finally finds words when he hears a certain elf speak through his earpiece.

"Ho. Lee. Shit."

"Alright, Henry," Butler says slowly, tearing his eyes away from the portrait. "Why don't we go sit down somewhere comfortable? We're going to be talking to you for a while."

Henry brushes the hair from his eyes, managing to smear green paint in his fringe. Micah sighs.

"Go take a quick shower and change first," she tells him. "No sense in ruining the couch."

Henry wanders away. Butler turns to see Angeline and Artemis Senior staring at a large charcoal sketch of what appears to be Juliet sparring in the Fowl Manor gym with a rather large, bald, muscular man whose back is to the viewer. They're both wearing katas. It's a very familiar scene.

"Everything okay?" Micah asks, covering Henry's paints with aluminum foil.

"Relatively," Artemis Senior mutters, and turns. "Do you mind if we look around at his work while he's freshening up?"

Micah waves her hand, her eyes tight. "Try not to touch the faces of the canvases," she says. "I'll... check on him."

She follows Henry out of the room, looking anxiously over her shoulder one last time before disappearing back into the apartment.

The three split up, peering through the vast amount of work. Butler heads to the desk that has the sketch of him and Juliet on it and pulls the newsprint up, his stomach dropping when he sees what's underneath; a very detailed, very uncomfortably correct portrait of Angeline in the throes of her madness.

He decides not to mention it.

"He —"

"Not now, Holly," he says as softly as he can manage. He can practically feel the elf fuming beside him, betrayed only by a slight haze in front of an old, half-finished painting of Ziggy Stardust. Underneath the unsettling portrait of Angeline, the sketches get more and more drug-addled until they look like nothing more than frustrated scribblings. He turns away and starts looking through a nearby sketchbook, but doesn't find anything more than perspective and figure drawing practice. He has the decency not to bat an eye when he comes across nude sketches of Micah.

He catches Angeline's eye from across the studio and nods toward the door. She taps her husband on the shoulder and they file out silently.

Micah is waiting in the living room, perched delicately on an armchair, her spine stiff. The three visitors settle on a — thankfully large — couch (Holly, Butler notes, stands in a corner; a prime defensive position) and it isn't too long of a wait before Henry comes out of the master bedroom, apparently made much more lucid by the shower. He sits tiredly on the room's other armchair.

Artemis Senior gets right to it. "We've looked thoroughly through your file," he says, "but we're looking for a more in-depth account of the last nine years. Sometimes the smallest detail can help an investigation."

Henry reaches up to massage his head but Micah grabs his hand before he can get there.

"Concussion," she murmurs.

"Right," he says, and slumps, his long legs reaching across the floor. "You want my life story, huh?"

"If you have the time," Angeline says gently. "But sooner or later this is going to have to get done."

"Maybe once he's feeling better," Micah says, but Henry waves her off.

"It's fine," he says, and smiles dopily at her, his eyes glazed. "You'll speak up if I mess anything up, won't you?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're hopeless."

He grins.

Butler clears his throat.

The couple starts, as if they had momentarily gone into their own little world.

"Okay," Henry says, straightening up. "So I guess you'll want me to start at the beginning, won't you?"

* * *

_"Wake up."_

The words make a slamming impact on his mind, burrowing deep, burning, seething. The first words.

His eyelids are heavy. He can't find his tongue. His head feels light and breezy; empty. Everything is wrong. His body screams for him to run for his life, but he doesn't know what for. He doesn't know anything.

A sigh, a breath echoing in empty space. "He's not ready," grumps the voice.

_Ready; prepared for something, finished and available to use, primed for immediate use or action._

Noises surge through his ears, the first noises. Beeps, taps, whirrs, hums. His body is covered by something rough, and he's cold. The first moment, and he is cold.

"Are you sure?" comes the second voice he has ever heard. "His heart rate was spiking."

"He's not moving," says the first.

His first smell is something sharp and rudely sudden, and his eyelids lose their heaviness.

The first thing he has ever seen is a saggy, white tiled ceiling. The second is two women, yellowed by their smoking habits, leaning over him, holding something under his nose.

"You're lucky to be alive," says the first one, a false redhead. "Another minute in that car and you would have been burned alive."

Car? What car? He has never been in a car before, not that he can remember. Had someone drugged him? But who would do that? He doesn't know anybody who would have cared to drug him and put him in a car. But really… he doesn't know anyone at all.

"What's your name, hon?" asks the second one, pale and pruned. "You won't get in any trouble, but your ID doesn't lead anywhere. And you don't look old enough to have one, anyway."

"It's fake," the redhead murmurs.

"Hush," snaps the prune, and then smiles down at him with browned teeth. "Can you tell us your name, doll?"

He hesitates, and then teaches himself how to speak. His vocal chords shake for the very first time. "My name…" he says, and stops. His voice is slightly high-pitched and shaky, but it sounds like it should be sure of itself.

"Go on, sweetie," croons the redhead. Her lips are like limp fish when she simpers. "I know you're in a lot of pain, but we need to know who you are so we can contact your parents. I'm sure they're very worried about you."

He feels his face contort; his first expression is of confusion. "My parents," he mutters.

"Yes?" breathes the prune.

"I don't know," he says, and it hits him harder than he's ever been hit.

"What don't you know?" say the fish lips.

"I don't know who I am," he whispers to the saggy white ceiling, and his body recoils into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he's awake, they tell him that they've given him a name so that they don't have to keep calling him Johnny Doe. They'll call him Henry Foster. Henry because of the new Ford the head of office has just bought and Foster because of his obvious status as a ward of the state. He doesn't like it. It feels alien. But he doesn't complain.

They're looking for his parents, they tell him, but Henry doesn't believe it. There's nothing to go off of. There's no real ID, no clue, no search party looking for him, and the license plate of the car leads to a junkyard a thousand miles away.

Meanwhile, the social workers are scrambling to get their hands on him. They want to find him a loving family to hold onto him for a while, they say. Someone to watch over him. So Henry tries to play up his injuries as long as possible in order to stay in the hospital. His wounds feel itchy, he feels hot, he has chest pains, he has spinal headaches. He tries everything. But eventually, he's standing with a nameless man in a suit on somebody's porch.

He hops around a few houses for a while. Nobody commits for long, because they think his parents will be found. But when they don't show their faces, Henry finds himself in a new home with a trash bag full of secondhand sweaters and worn jeans.

But he's fascinated. Whoever he once was, he's started anew. They tell him that he's fourteen, and that when the new school year starts he'll be a freshman in high school. Besides that and his name, he's at the liberty to be whoever he is. And so he's quiet. He watches. His foster families don't talk to him, and he doesn't talk to them, but he learns and he draws what he sees on scraps of paper with chewed-up pencils.

Three months after he woke up with a clean slate, he finds himself on the Gellmans' porch.

The woman who answers the door is very short and plump in the motherly sort of way, her curly brown hair spilling everywhere. She invites them in with a smile, and Henry realizes that she's the first one who has smiled for real when she's seen him. He's not the best looking child; ratty black hair, a bony frame, gaunt cheeks and clothes that don't fit him quite right. But she invites him right in, introducing herself as Iris. Inside, a teenage boy is wrestling with a young girl and an even younger boy. She informs the stony social worker that someone named Greg will be home soon, and she returns to the kitchen. The social worker follows her. The children stop their playing and stare as Henry stands awkwardly, silently in the door to the living room.

"Hey," the oldest one says. "I'm Bill. I'm seventeen."

"Hi," Henry says. "I'm Henry. They told me that I was fourteen."

"Well I'm ten!" the little girl crows proudly.

"And she's also Molly," Bill says.

"Wess is only six," Molly explains. The boy stomps his foot.

"I can tell him how old I am!" he whines. Bill pats him on the head, rolling his eyes and giving Henry a slightly awkward smile. Henry stares silently back, his sweater sagging on his thin frame. They stay like that until the social worker comes back with Iris.

"Henry," she says, sitting and patting a spot on the couch next to her. He sits as far away as possible. "Mr. Jeeves was just telling me that you've been bounced around because your parents haven't showed up."

Henry shrugs.

"You don't have to leave here if you don't want to," she says. "We'll let you stay for as long as you like."

"I'll share my room," Bill offers. "But you can have it when I leave next year."

"If you want to stay that long," Iris says.

Mr. Jeeves remains silent and stony. Henry casts his eyes down and nods, unsure of what really to say.

A door slams, and a tall, strong man strides in, dropping a briefcase. "Evening, ladies and gentlemen, and – oh, was that today?" He eyes Henry and grins broadly. "Hello there."

"Yes, Greg," Iris sighs. "I called you at least three times."

"Oh, right, well, my phone died," Greg says, sitting down between Iris and Henry and making the boy extremely uncomfortable. "I forgot to charge it last night. I thought this was next week, but I guess not. How are you, Henry?"

"Fine, sir."

Greg gives him a stern look. "No, Henry, my name is Greg, not sir. You call me sir only when you're in trouble, isn't that right kids?"

An affirmative chorus sounds from the siblings.

"Right," Greg says. "So you can call me Greg. Or Dad, if you want."

"I'll stick with Greg," Henry mutters. Greg shrugs.

"If you like," he says. "Should I be grilling something, hon, or was it your night for dinner?"

Iris rolls her eyes fondly. Henry gets the feeling that Greg is somewhat a forgetful person. "No, it's mine," she says. "Vegetarian lasagna, since I wasn't sure if Henry was a vegetarian or not. Are you?"

He shakes his head, though he doesn't really know. He'll eat whatever's put in front of him.

"Awesome," Bill says, flopped on an armchair. "Veggie lasagna's my fave."

"It's gross," Wess pouts.

"You can pick out the squash if you feel like being picky," Greg says. "Mr. Jeeves, you're welcome to stay for dinner if you want."

The social worker gives a tight smile and shakes his head. "No, I've got a mountain of paperwork waiting for me thanks to this little guy." He ruffles Henry on the head in what he appears to think is a friendly fashion, but Henry scowls slightly and attempts to flatten his perpetually messy, choppily cut hair. He sees Iris's smile dim a bit at this statement.

"Right," she says. "Why don't you show yourself out?"

Mr. Jeeves looks slightly affronted, but he quickly leaves, the front door closing in the silence he leaves behind.

"Right-o," Greg says, hopping to his feet. "Bill, do drinks, Molly, set the table, and Wess, you just sit down and don't break anything, okay?"

The six-year-old leaps up and rockets toward the kitchen table and clambers into a chair, obediently not touching anything breakable. Greg offers Henry a hand.

"You're with me, kid."

Henry looks up at him. This man is strange; the wrinkles around his eyes suggest that he smiles a lot, and he and the rest of the family are more welcoming than any other of the foster homes have been. Greg leads him into the kitchen, where they toss together a salad – or rather, Greg does all the work and Henry just dumps everything into a bowl. On the windowsill over the sink, he spies a menorah.

"Are you Jewish?" he asks as Greg hands him a handful of chopped carrots.

"Yep," Greg says. "Kind of fake Jewish, actually."

"Greg," Iris reprimands from nearby. He grins at her back.

"I mean, we aren't kosher, like, _at all_, and we go to temple every once in a while when we feel like we need to at least pretend to be good Jews –"

Iris turns and puts her hands on her hips, staring him down. Greg winks at Henry.

"Which pretty much means never."

"One more word out of your mouth and you're not eating any of this," Iris says, pulling the lasagna out of the oven. "Henry, what he means to say is that we're technically Jewish, but we're not very observant."

"Yeah," Bill says, leaning over from the other side of the counter. "Which means we, like, _never_ go to temple."

"That's it," Iris says. "Bill, sit down. Greg, go join your son in the walk of shame. I hope the lasagna burns your tongues."

"Mm-mm!" Greg says as he sidles past her, making for the table with the bowl of salad and a kiss on her cheek. "Pipin' hot, just like I like it."

Dinner passes like Henry would expect any dinner with a big, loud family to. Molly and Wess bicker, and Bill tries to detach himself and consort only with the adults and, when he remembers, Henry. At one point, Wess manages to knock his plate to the floor, splattering lasagna all over the place, much to Iris's dismay. Greg laughs, kisses her and the teary six-year-old on the nose, and cleans it up without complaint.

Henry, despite feeling wildly thrown for a loop, couldn't love this place more if he tried.

* * *

A month and a half later, Henry is still with them and Iris is valiantly trying to corral the entire family together for an evening in the city.

"Wess, what did I tell you, bubbeluh? Go get your jacket! Greg — for God's sake, Molly, put your father's phone away. Greg, take your phone away from her, and did you get the picnic basket?"

"What?"

"The picnic basket, did you get it?"

"Oh — Bill, go grab the picnic basket, will you?"

"My God, Greg — Henry, do you have the blankets?"

"Is this enough?"

"Perfect. Molly, give your father back his phone — no, Wess, that shoe is on the wrong foot. Never mind, you can put them on in the car. Henry, will you help him with his shoes in the car? Oh, thank you Bill. Greg, darling, set the alarm — are we ready? I see four children and one overgrown child, food, blankets — excellent. Let's go, traffic won't wait for us!"

The frantic rush to get out the door results in them having to turn around twice — once for Wess, who has forgotten his jacket despite Iris's best efforts, and once for Greg, who left behind his wallet. In the end, they make it to the Hollywood Bowl with a good ten minutes to spare, a feat that Iris preens over. As they enter the arena, Greg slings one arm around Bill and one around Henry, who is shocked into smiling.

With a good haircut, a line of home-cooked meals and properly-fitting clothes, he feels less like the gangly alien boy who woke up alone in a hospital and more like Henry Foster. When the family settles in their row in front of the large outdoor stage, he pulls his sketchbook and pencils from a the picnic basket and busies himself with his work until the show starts.

It's one of Iris's favorites — a musical comedy she enthusiastically whispers at least three times is called _The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee _— and Bill, ever the teenage boy, tells Henry to check out the girl playing Olive. Henry does, and admits that she is kind of pretty, and then falls in love when she opens her mouth and starts to sing.

At the end of the show, the actors stand on the front of stage and greet the audience cheerfully. Henry makes his way up bashfully and lets the crowd buffer him until people begin to clear out. It takes a moment for him to build up his courage, but when he does, he walks up to Olive, who, from up close, is very sweaty and made up. She greets him with a smile.

"You have a very pretty voice," he tells her, and she grins and thanks him, and, ears burning, he scampers back up the hill to group with the Gellmans. Bill thumps him on the back and congratulates him on his courage before scooping Wess up for a piggyback ride and races Molly across the park. Iris runs after them with the camera.

"So you enjoyed yourself?" Greg asks, left to carry the blankets and picnic basket. Henry takes half of his load and nods. "Good," the man says. "Musical theatre's not quite my thing, but this was fun. I'm glad you got to come with us."

"Thanks," Henry says softly. "I'd like to —" He cuts himself off, looking off into the smoggy Los Angeles skyline.

"What?"

He blushes, shrugging. "Do things like this again," he mumbles. Greg grins and nudges him.

"You're always welcome, kiddo," he says, his teeth gleaming in the street lights.

"Thanks —" He clears his throat. "Thanks, Dad."

Greg blinks and looks back down, his smile frozen. Henry has looked astutely away, his ears pink, the picnic basket clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

"Huh," Greg says, his smile widening comically, but he doesn't press the issue.

* * *

"I'm so glad that you've decided to stay with us for this first semester," Iris says, straightening Henry's sweater. "High school can be a very scary place. I remember my first day of freshman year. Then again, things have changed." She hands him his lunchbox, and then tosses Bill his as he pads in, yawning.

"Bill! You can't go to school in your pajamas!"

He rumples his hair and scratches his stomach, looking blearily at his family gathered in the kitchen. "I'm not," he grumbles, throwing his lunch back on the counter. "I've got an off period."

"I want an off period," Molly grumbles, fiddling with the zipper on her lunchbox anxiously. Henry reaches over and silently stills her hands. She looks at him, wide-eyed.

"You'll be okay," he whispers. "My first day of high school, your first day of middle school — we'll share our stories when we get home, okay?"

Greg and Iris catch this and share a look.

Despite Iris's assurances that he'll be okay, Henry feels like turning around and walking right back out the door when he enters North Hollywood High School. It's full of people he doesn't know, yelling and running and crashing into each other. Bill takes his elbow and leads him through the crowd to a line of tables manned by very stressed parents.

"Schedule, Foster," he shouts once they've made it through the chaos. A PTA mom thrusts a sheet of paper their way and gestures for them to move on. Bill grabs a map from the office and pulls Henry off to the side, circling where his classes and locker are.

"Bill!" A gangly boy pushes past Henry and manages to whack his knees with his trombone case, enthusiastically giving Bill a one-armed hug. They bump chests before Bill waves him off and returns to talking to Henry. The band kid stares.

"Dude, why are you talking to a freshman? Never heard of hazing?"

"Fuck off, man, he's my little brother."

In the end, Bill ends up leading Henry to his locker and helping him map out his route for the day. The girl at the locker next to his stares until Bill leaves for class. Henry glances uneasily at her from the corner of his eye.

"Where do I know you from?" she asks bluntly, closing her locker and leaning next to his. He eyes her. She's familiar, terribly so, and it takes him a moment. Her hair is now a nice deep red, and her complexion has darkened somewhat, and she's not wearing so much makeup, but when she grins in recognition he finally gets it.

"You're that kid from the park," she says. "You told me I had a nice voice."

"You're Olive," he says.

"Not quite," she responds. "Micah. And you?"

"Henry."

They shake hands and compare schedules. They have English and Art together, and she invites him to sit with her friends for lunch. That day he meets Shawn, a low-key Asian drummer, Curtis, a computer programmer, Frankie, who doesn't say anything but hello, Brooke, a well-built dancer, and Vanessa, who is quite possibly the most beautiful girl that Henry has ever seen.

* * *

Before he knows it, nine months fly by and summer is back. He excels in art, much to his instructor's glee, and learns to play the cello with astounding ease. He discovers, when Micah invites him over for dinner, that he's fluent in Italian, which is somewhat disturbing. After further investigation, he also discovers that he can speak Spanish, Russian, German, Japanese, Mandarin, French, Hindi, and Gaelic. After some consideration he decides not to worry about it and instead take French for an easy A in his elective credits.

On the last day of school, Vanessa gives him his first kiss.

"We should hang out more," she tells him. "Now that we're not in school or anything."

She leaves with a wink. When Micah shows up for their scheduled frozen yogurt outing she has to tell him to close his mouth.

That summer is a thing of beauty. He lets himself fall in love with Vanessa — her dark hair and pale skin almost a match to his, the spark in her eyes when he makes the mistake of getting her talking about science, the way her laugh sounds and the feeling of her hand twined with his.

He learns how to bond with people; once he discovers that he's practically a prodigy at the piano it's easy for him to pick up the guitar, and he and Shawn play together for hours on end, inviting Micah to join with her brand new bass. Frankie, who never stops being soft-spoken but still manages to sneak her way into his heart, introduces him to painting, and they lock themselves away in her father's studio for what seems like ages, not saying a word but letting the energy fill the room. Brooke tries (and fails) to teach him ballet, but she gets him moving and never fails to laugh at him and help him up when he falls on his ass. Curtis draws out his inner geek, and excited to have someone to talk to, he attempts to engage Henry in the science of electronics. Henry follows along, but when a complicated concept arises he hits a wall and can't find a way past it.

Despite that, he's incredibly happy.

No one questions the unexplainable multitude of talents he has; once Iris finds out that he can sing she makes him put on a piano/vocal recital for the extended family which, in the long run, gains him the favor of his stubborn Jewish grandmothers. Life is beautiful.

Of course, there's a reason that the expression "too good to be true" came into existence.

It's a week before school starts, and Henry's home late after a night of jamming out with Shawn and later making out with Vanessa. He silently opens the front door, creeping along with a silence that more than once has freaked out his adoptive family, and stumbles upon a disturbing scene in the kitchen.

Iris has buried her face in her hands, shaking her head endlessly while Greg, white as a sheet, strokes her hair back. It takes a minute for Greg to see Henry frozen in the doorway, but he swallows hard and tries to smile.

"Go on upstairs, bud," he says hoarsely, and clears his throat. "Go on. I love you, kiddo."

Henry swallows. "I love you too, Dad," he whispers, and walks heavily up the stairs to the room he and Bill share.

Two days later, Greg and Iris gather their children into the living room and tear their world apart.

Greg has stage four pancreatic cancer.

He has about two months to live.

Bill starts crying first. Molly squeezes her fists until her palms start dripping blood onto the couch. Wess, not understanding what's happening, cries too. Henry sits like a soldier caught in the aftermath of a war zone.

Greg softly says his name with all the gentleness and love of a father.

Henry bolts.

Somehow he ends up banging on Vanessa's door; her parents, as usual, aren't home. He falls to pieces on her kitchen floor and she digs through her parent's liquor cabinet until she finds an unopened bottle of tequila and drinks the entire thing with him. It's the first time Henry's had alcohol, and the first time he takes a shot he ends up spitting it all over the tile. Eventually, though, he's drunk enough to forget why he's there and she's drunk enough to make him laugh.

In the morning, she's the only one with a hangover.

"Jesus, close the blinds," she moans, and he does, reaching down to hold her hair as she vomits into the sink. "Your first time getting wasted and you're telling me you don't feel this? What are you, Irish?"

He goes home that evening. His father is still waiting for him. Henry walks into his arms and doesn't wander far for the next three months.

Greg deteriorates so rapidly that it's almost obscene. The family seems to follow, and once Greg is admitted to the hospital it all goes downhill. He loses weight almost overnight, vomiting up anything he eats and finding blood in his stool. He goes from an upright, strong man to a veritable wraith. For every pound he loses the bags under Iris's eyes grow heavier.

Bill doesn't leave for UT, as planned. The university negotiates for him to have a year off and automatic admission in the next year. He spends nearly every waking moment with his parents, watching his dad sink into the depression that typically accompanies the cancer and holding his hands when he tries to itch his skin off.

It's far too late for them to treat the cancer, and they treat the symptoms instead, giving him multitudes of painkillers, antidepressants, and even putting in a bile duct stint. Pancreatic cancer is incredibly difficult to catch early, the doctor tell them.

Despite what the the mooks say, Greg stretches his life out for an extra month. In a rare moment alone, he reaches his hands out to Henry and holds him weakly.

"You're a beautiful kiddo," he tells him. "And I'm sorry I didn't have the honor of being your dad for very long."

For the first time, Henry cries in front of the man he considers to be his father. Two days later, Greg is in a coma. One week after that, they take him off of the machines and he slips away.

The family is in shambles.

Iris, after three months of holding them together, cracks and retreats into her room, leaving Bill to take care of Wess and ensure that his younger siblings still make it out the door for school. Molly throws a chair at her teacher and gets suspended. Wess starts getting into fights on the playground. Henry flat-out doesn't go to class.

One night, Shawn offers him a blunt to help him blow off steam. Vanessa throws in a bottle of Jack and they waste the night away. For the first time in months, Henry cracks a smile. It becomes a weekend habit, and then twice a week. Three times. Four, sometimes. Micah tries and fails to snap him out of it.

"She doesn't want you to be happy," Vanessa says one night, passing him the joint. "Forget her."

So he does, and he draws and paints and throws himself into his work with a frenzy that borders on violence to make up for the fact that he's shut his closest friend out of his life. In December, Shawn has his hands on some coke from his cousin's girlfriend and it's the weirdest, best feeling Henry's ever had. That night he throws open the front door, marches up the stairs, and bursts into Iris's room, where she's mostly been since the death of her husband. He screams at her endlessly, tearing his throat raw as he shouts at her, gripping the collar of her shirt, shaking her violently, to pull her life back together and start being a mother again. Bill charges up from downstairs, tackles Henry, and knocks him out.

When he wakes up, there's a word he doesn't recognize in his mind. He writes it down before he can forget and pins it to the ceiling above his bed, staring up from the sweaty sheets.

_Domovoi_.

He looks it up, but it makes little sense. He's still pondering it when Bill finds out he's awake and drags him downstairs for an intervention. Iris has pulled herself out of bed and sits on the couch, sallow.

"You can't keep doing this," Bill says. "I know it hurts — and I'm not trying to minimize your suffering — but you only had dad for a year. I had him for eighteen. Mom had him for twenty. We all miss him. But _we're_ trying."

"You don't think I'm trying?" Henry asks, softly, dangerously. It's a voice that feels familiar and yet utterly foreign to him.

"You told her she had to get out of the attic," Bill says. "That's how high you were, Henry. You were nowhere _near_ the attic."

Henry opens his mouth to respond, but stops. "The attic," he repeats, and something tickles the back of his mind.

After two more hours of talking and tears on everyone's behalf, the attic goes on the ceiling next to Domovoi. He lays in bed and hears Bill's voice in his head.

"_I love you like you're my biological brother. And I don't want to wake up one morning and find out you're dead in a ditch because you were too high to realize you were pointing a gun at your face."_

"_Fine. But Mom has to come out of her room."_

Henry stares at the words on the ceiling, realizes they'll probably never make sense, and calls Micah.

Her home number doesn't have caller ID. She picks up with a typical polite "Hello."

It's the first time he's heard her voice in weeks. She immediately comes over and hugs him, refusing to let go until he's promised her he'll stop. Then together they make the decision that Henry's going to call Vanessa and end their relationship. Vanessa screams and curses and screams some more, but eventually hangs up.

"She told me you don't want me to be happy," Henry mumbles.

Micah rolls her eyes. "That's bullshit," she says. "She's poisonous, man. You're my best friend in the world; of course I want you to be happy."

Things get better. Slowly, but they do. Henry fights over the entire second semester to bring his grades back up and pass for the year, and he manages to scrape a C in everything but geometry, which, through a long and begging-filled meeting with the principal he arranges to make up over the summer. He reconciles with his friends, even Shawn, who promises under threat of a severe beating never to offer Henry illegal substances ever again. Life, it seems, is broken and bruised, but back on track.

That is, until the party.

* * *

Henry's interrupted sounds of the front door being unlocked echo through the apartment. He sits up, frowning, and looks at Micah. She sighs.

"I thought they weren't going to be over until six," she mutters, and stands as the sound of an older woman's voice fills the place.

"Don't trip on the doormat, bubbeluh — not in the kitchen, then. Do you want a snack? No? Where on earth are they? I bet you Henry's in his studio; it's just like him to be up keeping himself busy when he should be recovering. I swear, that boy has absolutely no brains, not a single sensible hair on his head. Where's Micah? Micah!"

"We're in the living room, Iris," Micah says tiredly. Henry sniggers; she shoots him a dirty look. Quick feet can be heard thumping on the carpet.

It's almost unbelievable, what happens next. Angeline's hand flies to her mouth; Artemis Senior's jaw drops; Butler's heart clenches spasmodically. He, very clearly, hears Holly's next words.

"What the _hell?"_

Because, in a matter of seconds, a small, black-haired blur about three feet tall has entered the living room, crossed it, and vaulted into Henry's lap with a high-pitched exclamation of "Daddy!" And it — or rather, _he_ — is currently perched in Henry's lap and chattering away about his day at school and thrusting the picture he drew into Henry's bruised face.

Then he registers that there are three unfamiliar people in the room and turns around, surveying the strangers with strikingly familiar blue eyes.

"Well," Henry says with a fond laugh, completely oblivious to the shocked silence across the room. "I guess you've just met my son."


End file.
